In the darkest hour of the brightest night

A midnight in June. I recall it in vivid fragments.

The cold moistness of wet hands, the roar of powerful rapids above, and the silvery water, full of tiny air bubbles, flowing rapidly in a strong run.

They are background for the real show.

Heart stops beating when a trout—a big one, it is no place for small trout—rockets out of the strongest current straight up, turns in the air and descents back into the water. Heart beats again. Fast. A moment later it happens again, then another fish, and another, and then the biggest and stoutest of all. They are perfect.

It lasted about 30 minutes.

No.

It lasted a lifetime.