“Once there were brook trout in the 

streams in the mountains. You could
see them standing in the amber

current where the white edges of their

fins wimpled softly in the flow. They

smelled of moss in your hand.

Polished and muscular and torsional.

On their backs were vermiculate

patterns that were maps of the world in its
becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a

thing which could not be put back.

Not be made right again. In the deep

glens where they lived all things were

older than man and they hummed of

mystery.”

― Cormac McCarthy, The Road