The lake was waiting for me, though I was very late. A bright trout came to the fly, went back in the water taking all the light with him. Moon brushed out of the pines, cast its glow on the lake. I drifted, fly drifted through the silver-blue night. A silver trout pulled on the fly, let go. Bestir yourself; time to be on your way. The moon led me home.
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