The bridle-path, the river bank, and where they crossed I took a length of hazel bark, and carved a boat no bigger than a fish, a trout, and set it down and saw it float, then sink. And where it sank an inch of silver flesh declared itself against the sun. Then it was gone.

And further south, beyond the bridge, I took a nest of cotton grass and flint to make a fire. Then watched a thread of smoke unhook a pair of seed propellers from a sycamore which turned together and became a dragonfly that drew the smoke downstream. But the fire would not light.

Then at night, the house at the mouth of the river. Inside, a fish, a trout, the ounces of its soft smoked meat prepared and on a plate. I sat down there and ate. It is the way of things, the taking shape of things, beginning with their names; secrets told in acts of sunlight, promises kept by gifts of rain.