On cold, snowy days, I dig through my library of John Gierach books. I read them over and over.
It’s both for entertainment and to admire the best of writing. There is never one wasted word, never anything out of place in a single sentence. It is prose. I often read a paragraph a second time to let it marinate.
They are trout fishing books, mainly a series of short stories about his great trips. I ache to fish those streams, perhaps because he paints the picture so well.
My favorite author passed away in the fall.