My tiny office sits in the southwest corner of my house. Large sliding glass doors frame a pastoral view of the valley beyond.

The majestic White River, famous for its huge brown trout and colorful rainbow, flows just behind houses in the field below.

Fishermen from far and near are attracted to its serene shores for trout is replinished frequently from a hatchery nearby.

An old bridge spans the Norfork River, which joins the White just downstream from my home.

West of this bridge, a narrow road runs beside the Norfork River where I ride my bicycle.

Along the road high bluffs strewn with wild flowers and vines display their colorful fall attire.

Toward the end of the road is a park noted for its huge wooden deck, perfect for fishing when the water is high and too dangerous for wading.

Very soon, the golden eagles will arrive, gracefully glide overhead, then suddenly dive to scoop up an inattentive trout.

And, the dogwood's small, tinted leaves will fall, float lazily under the old bridge and flow silently into the White River.