Once, for a stretch of years, I lived in a very small town on the bank of a famous Montana river. It was famous mainly for its trout, this river, and for its clear water and its abundance of chemical nutrients, and for the seasonal blizzards of emerging insects that made it one of the most rewarding pieces of habitat in North America, arguably in the world, if you happened to be a trout or a fly-fisherman. I happened to be a fly-fisherman.
A friend sent this essay to me. All he wrote in his email was, "A nice little bedtime story, a very nice story.” He forgot to include how this is quite possibly a perfect piece of writing. What a joy to read.