Autumn

A quiet day before the season’s first nor’easter brings discord. I am leaning to a four weight rod this morning; perhaps my Sweetgrass pentagonal will fit the bill. The rod’s russet-colored silks against it’s lovely blond cane speaks to autumn, and it has fewer days than some along the turns of this frenetic summer.

I have the reach of water foremost in my thoughts just now, one I know as intimately as any. Fishing has been quiet there too. I have wandered the wide riffles and flats of the Delaware, but the signs of feeding trout have diminished as the month advances. September’s moods…

There are other favored bends, other rivers who are calling, and I have stopped and, inquired, but there are no answers yet.

There is no hook in the vise today, for there are more flies in my light, summer vest than upon the water. My mood is thankful for a bounteous summer, yet harboring wistful thoughts of the gifts might offer as autumn wraps me in her brilliant colors. With the mountainsides aflame and the calm waters reflecting that glory, a fish has a great deal to compete with.

Each day when I feel the afternoon sun upon my shoulders, I know that moment could be the last. Winter here descends as she wishes, ignoring the calendar, but just yet there is still time. I long to feel that warmth, clutch the cork again and feel the cane taught and throbbing with the life of the river!