Tom stood by Big Rock, fishing. He loved the movement of the river, the dip of the trees, the wind on his face.
It wasn’t the activity of fishing, it was the drift, bits of the past, bits of the present, swirling around him.
When Tom was here, by Big Rock, he fit into the universe.
He got a bite on his line, carefully reeled it in. Ah! It was trout! His favourite!
He put the struggling fish into the bucket, and considering he’d been here from about six and it was nearly noon, and the size of the fish, he decided to stop for now.