Here there are no sparkly bass boats with 200hp motors and price tags that eclipse my first mortgage.
Absent is the flotilla of slowly baking humans splayed on inner tubes offering themselves as sacrifices to the sun.
Ten yards from my truck I am enveloped by a micro world that draws the curtain closed on the macro world behind me.
The hum of traffic is drowned out by the trill of a Carolina Wren and the rollicking repertoire of a Mockingbird.
Murmurings of moving water slowly soothe the anxious beating of a harried heart borne by this servant of commerce and culture. Gradually, almost imperceptibly gathering into a roar as it cascades over a small dam.
Here the water runs as clear as Waterford crystal, distorting the perception of depth. It has fooled me before, when the confident step taken into two feet of water actually turned out to be two feet deeper. The baptism embarrasses but there is no one here to witness my folly.
Springs chortle and Maidenhair Ferns nod in acknowledgement of my presence, but silent sentinels they remain, their secrets known only to the wind.
As Helios whips his chariot down toward the horizon, dimples appear on the surface of the crystal. I remember the six foot fiberglass fly rod in my hand; my prop; my excuse for this incursion into Middle Earth.
No...here there are no sparkly bass boats.