Another milestone has arrived, and yet time still seems to be spiraling. Snow is a promise, and yet just hours from a warm sunlit morning. Turmoil in the heavens, turmoil here in earth.
The Beaver Kill has a fine freshet, to clean it’s gravel free from the old and welcome the new. Shall new life wriggling between those stones seek the sun when April dawns?
I began to fill a fly box tasked for winter’s new crop of patterns, but I soon lost my steam, the task left unfinished. Concentration evades me.
The rods are still cased, and none have dallied in the hand, no polish has buffed the luster behind all the years since untold casts have launched a hope and a prayer. Time stands, circling…
I wish to think forward, to plan for that first cast when a soft ring elicits a quickening in my heart rate, yet the mire pulls me down, prevents my spirit to rise to the light.
Waiting…
Bright Waters Catskill 