Summer solstice camping on the Metolius River
Camp Sherman, Oregon.
A lovely time with an auntie, uncle, grandma, and grandpa. 
At 1 p.m. everything positively glows. The sun slants its back on me. The river is brilliant, while ripples of crystal flow downstream where insects seek nectar. My nectar is before mine eyes: every shade of green. The spectrum talks to me. Rustle of grass. Gurgle of river.
The fly fisherman, skinny as his rod, wades in and seeks a blended immersion. Save his bright orange pole and black sunglasses. I dare say, they see his eyes glaring at them. They glare right back.
Note to fly fisherman and women: Mid-morning, in the same pool of crystalline water, a bull trout, all 15 glorious inches of him, is landed. The husky fisherman, planted now, near the west bank, casts his shadow behind him. He is fully sea, sand, and sky. The bull trout has met his match. He agrees to a little free play on the Metolious today. Both enjoy the match immensely. Both resist. Both are released. Heading home.
