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The kids doing this tune were probably far older than I when I first heard this. I don't even remember girls from that age, only trout fishing, sitting on a boulder under pine boughs on the lake side, casting my fly for time after time, the motion and the grace of the arc of the line and the art of the fly sure to attract what I would then, as I do now, think of as love.
That was some time ago, the younger girls I now know being grandmothers, and the prey I seek, jihadis, my mist-shrouded riverbanks and stone-heart mountains, my own mind.
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