He had wet his hand before he touched the trout, so he would not disturb the delicate mucus that covered him. If a trout was touched with a dry hand, a white fungus attacked the unprotected spot. Years before when he had fished crowded streams, with fly fishermen ahead of him and behind him, Nick had again and again come on dead trout, furry with white fungus, drifted against a rock, or floating belly up in some pool.
-The Big Two Hearted River Part II – Ernest Hemingway
He wanted clouds to fall into–
Nothing you can touch is perfect.
His trout drifting in the gorge,
Bright throat, cobweb spots,
White moss, gills and fingerprints,
The self– deadly net, canvas bag.
To escape traitor skin, to mold.
Death, this unnatural death.