Hope is a waking dream
Aristotle

Ten-year-old Jake preferred to sleep on the back porch, which overlooked the South Branch. From his place there he could hear, but not see the river as it wound it's way around the tight bend below the cabin, through the W.A. Hole, and past the Oxbow Club, where it eventually joined the Main Branch just above Connor's Flats.

He liked to lay in the dark, listen to the water, and remember the fish he'd caught. Each one was a triumph and it's memory a treasure. He was afraid to forget even one of them because it might be lost forever. He hoarded these memories by reliving each catch; where he had stood, and cast a certain fly. He recalled where the fish had come from, and run to, and in the end, how the trout always seemed like a jewel in his hands.

The very first had been a small brook trout, in perfect proportion to the boy, and he knew that he'd never forget how it felt when he let it slip back into the water, or the wonderfully clean and wild scent it left on his hands.

Today's image is a little jewel of an oil painting. "" show's Jakes first fish just seconds before it's release.

DuRoss slid into the water quietly, sitting on the river’s bank and putting both feet in at the same time, trying to make as little ripple as possible. The cold water lapped around his ankles and began to work its way upward, through the feet of the hip waders.

Next time I’ll wear heavier socks, he thought, but then, a little cold had never stopped him before.

He had seen the ring left by the fish’s rise as he was driving down the dirt road beside the river, a ring with a hole in the center, as big as a tractor tire. If he caught the fish who made it, he’d tell that to his friends down at the Seed and Feed store where men gathered to drink free coffee before going about their day.