Sunday, August 30, 2015
The deep woods sound of cicadas. The water is cool enough at dusk now for a few sipping trout. How I missed that scene but here I am as if I never left. A cold beer with an old friend, going through it which we all do at times, is just what the doctor ordered, whether his doc or mine doesn't matter. Hits the spot for the both of us. I practice casting to some rising pumpkinseed who happily take an imitation cinnamon ant. The trout pay me no mind, they are too smart this time of year after a long summer of being fished over. I figure I've got another twenty years or so before I can fool the late August brown on a dry fly. Hell, even Hemingway said that anyone is a good fisher in May. True. So long as I can be a good friend and have one, I'll take "lousy fisherman".