Go fish

The air is so saturated with cold moisture this morning it gets into your bones and makes your teeth chatter. Motoring up the river long lines of Canada geese undulate like ribbons blowing south down ancient flyways. We passed two other boats. Instead of fishing rods they had shot guns. Duck hunters.

Just two kinds of hunters passing in the stream. Over the summer my dad and I caught our fill of catfish on this river. Since then every other fishing hole of ours has yielded so little that I convinced him to come back here. I've been wanting to see this stretch of the river again. I love its tidal mud flats, tangled undeveloped shorelines, egrets, herons, bald eagles, and ducks.

My uncle Steven came along for the ride. An avid fishermen and a pleasure to have around, I'm glad he's here. We casted along the reeds and grasses, followed the contours of the tidal channels, and drifted over deep pools casting and coaxing. A carrot on a stick, but no takers. No fish.

The river has changed with the seasons, and for whatever reason the fish are no longer here like they were. The sticky, humid heat and drone of summer cicadas has been replaced with crisp air, the low slant of winter sunlight, and a drizzle of leaves blown out over the river like fairy dust. The last whisper of autumn.

The whole afternoon passed by without even a bite. But I didn't care. It was a gorgeous day to drink in the open space, the warm glow of sunshine on you face, and the peaceful quite of fishing. Capturing the moment in the grasp of falling leaves. Finding grace in Winter's understatement.