The spring creeks are blown out for the most part; still there are we sadists who prefer the quell of a serene stream side and the sublet breeze over new sprouts of creek grass. Sometimes these waters provide us a place to unwind the mind and remember a rhythm that seems as old as the bedrock that lifts the stream beds. We may catch a fish, and we may just become a better caster as our mind replays the mantra, one more cast.