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Through ripples and reflections, we find rocks and wood, maybe a shining piece of metal someone has left behind. Even the flash of a flake of mica in the sand, no bigger than a fishes scale. How is it that we miss the trout.

Gliding above the mud and stone he is emerald and gold, vermillion and azure, violet and blaze. He is metallic, kinetic, aesthetic. Perfect in his camouflage, he is at once breathtaking and invisible.

Look closer, he is abstract. He is pointillism, he is impressionism, he is surrealism. He is cubist, fauvist, and expressionist, he is Monet, Van Gogh and Miro. He is Blake’s world In a grain of sand. Infinity in the palm of your hand.

He is beauty, and like all beauty, he vanishes into the mundane. It is a failing of the human eye, or maybe of the heart. He is truth, and like all truth he is hidden from us. To find him we must make a choice. When we choose our fly wisely, and present it well he will do what truth dose. Rise to the surface.

Louis Cahill

Gink & Gasoline

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