He was the silent type, the mute scholarreading the sky instead of his books,wasting no words above the still waters,searching instead for shades of detail,for the sharp, deep shadows of silver,for the subtle moves that only seers see.He was the careful type, the peaceful bravewrapping his weapon with string, downand prayer, warming his sight with colorsof sunset, waiting for sunrise to show himthe way, watching the depth of each cloudthat floated on the lake of his eyes. He was the simple type, the timeless boyflipping and testing his first flying rod,urging it on past limits of hand and armto the other side of vision and dreams,using all of that first moment to castthe perfect balance of boy and boat.He was the cautious type, the prize basswith the broken hook still in his mouth,staring up at the lake’s final surface of man, following the drag of the feather’s taunt,  waiting, waiting, learning at lastthe only reward of patience, is patience.www.storysouth.com