The World: As We Now Know It

The World: As We Now Know It 

    It's Saturday.  The best day of the week.  Unplanned potentialities beckon and stretch out ahead, as boundless as the first day of summer vacation. 
    Puffy white cumulus clouds float by, stately and proud, riding the breezes.  Beyond this wide open field, sun teased woodland, and the white noise of rushing water calls. 
    Over and between billowy underbrush, I make my way to a natural redwood bench: a tree, fallen to form a natural bridge over a rushing shock of water.  My feet rest reverently on a rich shag carpet of moss.
    Relaxing into the stillness of my surroundings, I notice, several feet away a green pool of silent, clear water, trapped behind a natural dam of dark partially sodden branches.  Leaving my natural redwood bench, I step closer, balancing on algae encased stepping stones. 
    The water is a surreal aqua marine color.  The sun momentarily leaks between the wavering leaves above, illuminating the water to a crystalline blue.  I am helplessly entranced.
    Hoping to see a resident of this quiet paradise, I scan the edges of the pool for any signs of life.  Not ever having had much luck spotting fish in their natural habitats, a hapless amphibian, maybe a newt would more than satisfy my yearnings for a proper nature experience.
    Much to my unbelieving eyes, I spot the long thin shadowy back of what appears to be a trout.  Suddenly breathlesss, I creep as close as possible, expecting the fish to become aware, and bold. 
    Closer, and closer, stooping down, I can't believe my luck!  The fish stays in its place, remaining suspiciously still.  Finally, muscles creaking, I crouch on a flat rock, inches from the tail end of the fish.  Under the water another spasm of gorgeous blueness reveals itself, the sunlight glows, prismatic, through the translucent mylar of a brand new potato chip bag.  The clear liquid atmosphere of the pool undulates caressingly around the petroleum based material, an intruder in this pristine underwater world.
    I feel suddenly deflated, let down.  Crazily, I had imagined that I was the only one here.  How silly of me, thinking that maybe no human being had ever even stood in this secret and enchanted place.
    Fixated, and horrified, I notice how the stale-proof packaging has worked its way down into the perfect blackness coating the bottom of the pool.  Indigenous half rotted leaves in earthly shades of tan, umber and green, are naievely doing their best to compete with this cheap, tawdry invader.  "Only $1.99!" the marketers from Frito Lay scream from under a tenuous plume of algae, trying in vain to float in a dignified manner next to the smooth and glinting spage age surface of the bag.
    Remembering the trout, I focus a little deeper into the water.  Deathly still, the fish still waits, unmoving, surely in captive appreciation of modern convenience.  After all, boasts the bag, there are "O Grams of Trans Fats!" within. 
    The feathery fins of what I now recognize to be a brook trout barely fibrillate.  Its gills open and close at a slow beat.  The back of this amazing beauty is a sensuous velvety green, slightly dappled and perfectly matched to the lush carpet of plant matter below.  On its side, fine black spots rest on a shimmering field of red, yellow and orange striations.
    My breath catching, I notice a perfectly machined brass hook, still shiny, protruding out of the rim of the fish's left eye.  The straight, precise arc, is still no match for the lovingly hand tied fly at the hilt of this same brass hook, not yet embedded into the other side of the partially detached gelatinous mess that was once a perfectly evolved optical marvel.  I now see that there is a large nest of leftover fishing line resting under one corner of the shack food bag, its contents reportedly "Guaranteed Fresh".
    Conflicted, I continue to crouch, my own healthy eyes locked onto this sad spectacle.  Should I try and help?  Is it too late?  Will I only make it worse?  I reach forward, and then hesitate, drawing back.  I feel the sudden flush of anger tinge my skin, and as I watch, the fish's fins slow their fanning.  Its gills cease to bellow the oxygen into his bloodstream.  Silently, slowly and inevitably, the side of the fish's belly kisses the surface of the pool, breaking the surface tension, the lovely scales losing their iridescent cast, forever. 
    I stand by the side of the pool, its magic gone from my eyes.  The sun has gone under, and the pool is dark and murky looking.  The stepping stones I made my way back on are now just slimy rocks.  The natural redwood bridge is merely a dead log.  The brush catches as my skin, and I remember to fear for tick bites. 
    Leaving the stand of trees, the fast moving water, once music, feels jeering and disorderly to my ears.  The sunlight feels dangerously bright, like radiation.
    The wonderful afternoon that stretched ahead before me, now seems boring and pointless.  The clouds above seem to be in a hurry.  The breeze is cool, and it raises the flesh on my arms.