. . . clear my mind

. . . We’re in the Narrows, along Clear Creek, fishing poles in back, sun not yet risen above the canyon’s edge.  It would be more authentic if the worms were in an old tin can, some we’d dug beneath the moon, instead of picking up at the Flying U.

But still. What could be more beautiful than this morning? . . .
.

[story: “how the water flows“]

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