Loch

A narrow freshwater lake in a quiet valley, its surface still except where ripples spread from trout breaking water at dawn. The shore where Herbert casts his line is muddy and littered with flattened stones and the skeletal remains of old campfires. Reeds grow thick along the margins, damp and scenting the air with decay that lingers even in dry spells. A single wooden rowboat bobs at a rotting dock, its hull pitted with sap from pine trees standing sentinel at the water’s edge. Mist lingers above the water before dawn, softening the edges of distant hills. The place is ordinary, undramatic—no bridge, no path beyond a narrow game trail, just a quiet spot where a man goes to think.