Water flows east
Sometimes I wonder if my feet return to that exact spot.
I am a tadpole of a kid and my eagerness is larger than this body of water and I am standing on the dam of the pond with a spinner rod in my hand.
It is summer.
The cow pasture is green and the sky is blue and the mosquitoes and flies and dragon flies take to the thick air and swarm and dart as these winged insects do. I presume there is a cliché, as on the other end of the line, is a common one-pound pond bass.
It swallowed the black plastic worm with the red plastic tail that was tethered by the hook I tied to my line.
Perhaps it was the fifth or the second fish of the evening and even though, this bass became something bigger than the pond and bigger than its own gills. When the fish was near the bank and certain of being caught, I released the bail and allowed the bass to swim; even though it was still attached. I watched the line and when a generous amount had left, I loosely tightened the drag and felt the bass tug.
As it goes, the reel made a hiss and with each jagged motion of the fish, a few feet of line would tease this reel and together, we played this fish and boy game.
It was just a bass, I know. But in the mind of an angler that sought deeper waters and blue waters and epic adventure and the fish that lurked where depths are measured by fathoms and leagues, the pond fish with light drag, became how my water flowed to the east.
Frequently, I think about flowing water and a pond and cow pastures and how hundreds of one-pound bass served to be the backdrop for the stage I sometimes fish. These days, I am thirsty for salt water and knowledge of the sea and the poetry and tapestry and the journeys that transition from one fish to the next.
Here, the ledges are hidden and the depths are dangerous and there are no cows in the pasture and the sun is bashful before gaining her confidence and following yesterday’s path across the eastern sky.
The tackle here is muscular and the vessels are fortresses and the language is sometimes tanned and the slang becomes fish-speak and still I think about an annoying gnat that buzzes my left ear.
As I think it is necessary, during these days where the search for bigger fish is equal to the ritual of colorful dreams, I take with me the flow of water that led me past the estuaries and through the inlet and beyond the shoals and where the waters are mysterious.
Even when on a vessel and upon a dorsal fin breaking the surface and chaos ensuing, I think about how my feet came to be on a vessel. There was a day when my thirst was for that of the sea and the struggle to retrieve line and tame that which is not destined to be tamed.
Some refer to this as an imagination. Some call this dreams.
Yet, like the water that flows from higher places and through the valleys and around the bends and downstream and empties into the sea, upon reaching these waters where the fish are known as epic and destiny and struggle, there is reflection along the way and of beginnings.
In a few days, my feet will board a vessel and into the depths we will seek. Yet, on a warm evening I went to the dam and I stood. The grass is green. The dragon flies and the mosquitoes dart as these insects, do.
I look to the west. From here, like the water and like the maturing path of a daily bashful sun, I look to the east.
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