Before my brother passed away, he and I fished together often. Each fishing trip with him was an adventure. Since his passing I haven’t been on many trips but I think back with fondness on the memories of him casting into fish laden waters from the front of my boat.
In my boat I float through the morning fog. I hear fish feeding on the hatch. The air is cool and the fog is thick. The morning sun illuminates the fog, giving it the illusion that it glows. The hull of my boat creates ripples in time that vanish in the fog. Dead limbs protruding from the surface of the still waters I float on, point toward hidden dangers in the fog, while their reflection in the mirror like surface of the lake point toward hidden perils below. A breeze parts the fog I drift through and beckons me to the backwaters on the other side.