I love that book. The last paragraph invoked such an overwhelming sense of poignancy within me, and I think I can still remember most of it.

!There was once brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing still in the amber current; the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled like moss in your hand. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its making. Maps and mazes. Of something that could not be put back, not be made right again. And in the deep glens where they lived all things were older than men, and they hummed of mystery.!<