looking down from the path the stream appeared to be the same as allways. it meandered out of the woods and across the old farms meadow. it grew shallow and then deepened just as my memories had it.

my son now a grown man walked down the hill with me. "why haven't you brought me here before now? this is a beautiful spot". he asked.

"it's too beautiful for a child" i answered, "a child would recoginize the beauty but they wouldn't understand it".

the soft orchard grass of the meadow gave way to ferns as we neared the creek bed. my son breaking through the ferns, said '' dad it's a river here''.

i looked at the water and memories surfaced floating across the water like fall leaves. memories that i couldn't share, and couldn't handle alone. "it's an illusion i told my son, it's still only a little stream''.

my son was a smart fisherman. he hunkered down on the bank and watched the current eddie and swirl past him. ''dad '' he asked ''how long has it been''?

''fourty years son'' i answered '' it's different water and i am a different man''.

the sun prismed through the streams riffles and was broken into a thousand hues, and i saw a fleeting reflection of a younger man. '' i only fished this stream three times, and never kept a fish'', i thought aloud.

the man who had once been a boy had to ask ''why not''.

with great difficulty i answered, ''they were too little, too young, too small, i would have been ashamed''. '' as much as i loved those happy little trout i knew that i would never be happy keeping them, they had too much life to live.

''watch me'' my youngest said.

''i will'' i answered ''i will''.

i put my rod back in it's case, and looked at the stream of my youth. i looked at the water, the trees, and the sky. i knew that i'd never fish that stream again.