Early morning haze, the promise of a hot and humid day. At the tail end of the cooler weather last month, a day of fishing, a gift of time. A hike into the shady woods, slippery scramble up a brook, filtered sunlight flickering. Pausing to cast in pools of cool water, brook trout hidden in the deeper pockets. The stream a mass of large boulders, fallen logs and storm debris. Water tumbling over rocks, falling into eddies, swirls and bubbles, patches of calm water. My son, a natural fisherman, skills honed by daily practice, expert eyes sensing the fish, body flowing easily into the line, movements guiding home-tied feather-weight flies to the right spot. Pausing to coach, encouraging me patiently, until finally, I too held a green speckled brookie gently in my hands. Released again into the waters, a shimmery flash, quickly gone from view, back into the cooler depths.