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.
In the past, brook trout inhabited the mountain streams, their presence marked by graceful movements in the water. These fish, with their vibrant colors and unique patterns, seemed to embody the essence of nature, evoking a sense of timelessness and vitality. Their scent of moss and the tactile experience of holding them spoke to a deep connection with the natural world, while their intricate designs hinted at the complexity of existence.
However, this beauty also represents a loss, emphasizing that such wonders cannot be reclaimed once they are gone. The ancient surroundings of the trout, filled with a sense of mystery and history, remind us that nature has its own story—one that predates humanity and is filled with elements we may never fully understand. Cormac McCarthy's portrayal captures both the majesty of these creatures and the melancholic recognition of the impermanence of nature.