The sun yawns awake and beams down lazy rays not warm enough to cut the morning chill, yet bright enough to make the dew sparkle and add a twinkle to the spiders’ lacework. This is the time I step out to the pond’s edge, bait and fishing pole in one hand and a mug of steaming Folgers in the other. As I settle in to the damp canvas chair we left on the bank last night and weave a worm onto my hook, a soft breeze chills my skin and delights my nose with water and pine and musty, wet earth. Nearby, the call of the mourning doves and the early symphony of life in a waking forest compete with the whistle of a distant train going who knows where–and who really cares? We’re on vacation, and a rolling freight train is an unwelcome reminder of work.
Three turtles, not a one larger than six inches in circumference, sit on a submerged log with their noses barely out of the water and watch me, the alien being on their planet. When I rise to cast my line, the command is shouted, Dive! Dive! Dive! and three swirls interlock in the water where the turtles once were. Other than that wee bit of activity, the pond is so mirror smooth it reflects the bright yellow butterfly winging over it. Then my baited hook and bobber land with a plop eight feet away and water rings grow ever wider until the ripples settle and again blend with the pond.
Will I catch a fish this morning? Probably not. I’m too distracted by the dragonflies zipping and dipping onto the water’s surface to watch my bobber float on the current. I’m too intoxicated with the smell of dew-kissed grass to care that my hook is now hung on the log that a moment ago hosted three turtles. And I’m too hungry for another sip of coffee to get up and retrieve it.
No, I probably won’t catch a fish this morning.