Ricardos Morels

This is the day to find morels and go fly fishing. The wind in Patagonia brings sea sounds and patagonian dirt releases pheromones.  The patagonian mud glues onto the skin under human nails to learn about foreigners.  There are no ancient ruins only a few scattered new ones that are built like a Texans steak dinner.  On another day I slowly knocked mud from tiny grass floss roots and thought this would be easier with out the yesterdays rain.  Yet happenstance stamped it easier to remain in the sea sounding wind longer then necessary.  And the almost full moon decided it is easier to fish with home made flies.  And the newly transplanted lettuce decided it is easier to watch a coupling pair of condors shape their wings perfectly like the First Nations paintings I have seen in Canada and Alaska. The wing is a particular giveaway against any color of sky.   I decided I must eat more Morels and I must learn not to move my arm like a waving miss america when I fly fish.