The dog’s nose is protruding just through the door frame. His wet nose is twitching just a little. After the warmth of the day, and his basking sessions, he seems to be appreciating the petrichor as much as I am. Just over my roof top, I can see a driveway tree swaying. Pulsing. Being pushed by the fresh southerly breeze. The same fresh breeze delivering that prelude to rain. That scent of spring and mist. That air so travelled and so full of Arctic ocean news. We have chirping frogs which seems to translate that news for the others, just as the birds grow quiet and go off to huddle in lush leafy trees.
I select a few of the warmer, more subtle lights to switch on. The ones in alcoves and recesses which will cast some ambience over the evening, befitting of the music I have selected. The cat’s appreciation of an unfolding evening leaves her out in the cool air, gazing over the garden, for longer than the rest of us.
I get to thinking, that if I was out on a still water in this gathering gloom, I would do the same. How many evenings have I stayed out just a little longer. Stayed until the freshness became coldness and more. Greyness became blackness, and the chop on the water turned to waves.
Stayed to embrace the wildness of it all. To say hello to conditions which call for the comfort of shelter. Stayed to fill my lungs with the liberating wind and experience the black and silver of night water
The promise of it. The fly, flung out there into the midst of it all to beg a cold, willing Trout which never comes. The extended last-cast ritual, getting blacker and blacker, as the prospects of that tug on the line grows fainter and fainter, as hope and expectation cling to the recently departed rays of light. Staying for bravery. Pulled by the warmth of so many cosy childhood evenings. The conflict of evenings in the elements and evenings in the company of people embracing the nostalgia of day’s end. The stark beauty of the wild arrival of cold night. The glow of close souls whose demeanour switches to raconteur and the attentiveness of a slower time of day.
One more cast.
Black cold wind.
Warm glowing lights on the hill.
Voices carrying across the hillside and down to the water’s edge.
A sudden loneliness, drawn to cameraderie.
Crank that handle, hook the fly in the keeper. Damn the cold unwilling Trout. Stride through flecks of drizzle to join in.
One Response
How well do I know that feeling! And it certainly looks cold – a good decision made!
Next time!