Every morning at 6:30 for thirty seven years, and with only a dozen exceptions for sick days with chicken pox, tetanus, and a short stint of blood poisoning, Peter McDonald hiked down to a river to fish. He wakes several hours earlier to put on chest waders and tie a singular and exemplary fly. Some of these flies are animated by clockwork mechanisms to beat their wings, others are painted with pigments made from crushed dragonfly bodies and stubble. Trekking down, Peter enters and exits the water several times, to make sure that it is the same river at least twice—though ideally more. The waders are important when it is the river of time, which no one wants to soak in, or in one of the meandering data streams, which have the best fish because they are so cold. Typically, the next seven hours are spent in deep contemplation of his fish, and because Peter believes in the power of positive thinking, he constantly visualizes his casting posture and grip. Sometimes the water freezes before the cast, and then he must wait for spring. Occasionally he catches a poem, an essay, or a pure inspiration, and returns to his house to cook it. Otherwise he goes hungry. Filleting a poem is a dying art as most poems are processed by machines today, but Peter has three special knives just for this task. In order to get a smooth, rich, and succulent poem, he prefers to use a quart of olive oil and poach the text, though he is not above breading it and serving it with chips. After gorging himself, Peter retires for the night. His dreams unfailingly involve facebook and board games.