“Clear waters drift through the immensity of a tall forest.In front of me a huge river mouthreceives the long wind.Deep ripples hold white sandand white fish swimming as in a void.I sprawl on a big rock,billows nourishing my humble body.I gargle with water and wash my feet.A fisherman pauses out on the surf.So many fish long for bait. I lookonly to the east with its lotus leaves.”

“Watching wild landscapes I forget distanceand come to the water's edge.”

“Seated alone by shadowy bamboos,I strum my lyre and laugh aloud;None know that I am here, deep in the woods;Only the bright moon comes to shine on me.”

“Death is like a fisherman who has caught a fish in his net and leaves it for a time in the water: the fish still swims about, but the net surrounds it, and the fisherman will take it when he wishes.”

“Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.I am haunted by waters.”

“As long as there is a 'you' doing or not-doing, thinking or not-thinking, 'meditating' or 'not-meditating' you are no closer to home than the day you were born. ”

“the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water”