Medically Induced Winter

The weather mirrors my mood, a perennial state of medically induced winter. The Catskills seem to be caught in a whirling mass of fifty-degree air, peopled with cloudbanks, cutting winds and raindrops, washing away the glory of May.

May should begin first of all with sunlight, gentle balmy breezes lifting mayflies toward the wonderous canopy of greenery. It is a time of loafing, reclined along a secret riverbank, waiting for the rise with nothing but warmth and time for company.

Such days haunt my dreams: the spark of a heavy boil far across the river, the stalk leaving no trace of my intent boldened by the prize near that far bank. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty or more? Once within casting range the stalk morphed into a game of infinite patience. As any realm of life patience at times remains unanswered, though upon the best of times it may be splendidly, rewarded…

I recall another May, shivering in a cold river, whipped for a chill forty-five-degree wind, but despite the conditions I was still on the hunt! The spoils will fall to those who wait, for at least they fell to me on that day. Our greatest mayflies hatched to the same cruel world, unable to warm themselves to take flight, and the browns swarmed to the feast. Ah, the 100-Year Drake shined that day in the late sunlight! I stalked from one to another and there were no refusers.

So many kind memories of May, so many warm afternoons reclined in the grass, awakened by that wondrous plop tingling in my ears – yes, there are flies in the drift and some secretive big brownie has been drawn forth by temptation…

I beg to be released to one of those waking dreams, to walk the riverbanks of memory, to walk as the day’s last light touches the water… smiling!