The Old Fisherman

He goes forth a little later, comes home a little earlier. He complains his motor’s going slower and his rod needs more repair. Says his line is strangely twisted, and the fish are small this year.

But he reads the water like a book and his lures look realistic. He knows every sunken log where bass and trout lie low. He casts his line with grace and skill, reels in with a pattern all his own and still thrills to little nibbles on his line.

Now the fish may not be biting, but that is not the thing. He tastes the morning’s thermos coffee with the sun upon his face. He hears the water lap the shore line and feels the breezes rock his boat. It is the peace and quiet that brings him back each day. For an old fisherman finds heaven, before the rest of us.