Some mornings nothing ever happens. The words repeat themselves without added meaning and all prayer sounds like repetitive jargon. Searching only uncovers hidden anxieties and not those stolen moments with God. The breath is shallow and the heart is numb and the dreaded silence persists, it persists, and persists. It is time for fisherman hope. Up early for the morning catch or down late for the evening rise. The rod is cast and the eyes attentive to the reflective mirrors of the sun and shore. His hook anchored deeper down in watery shadows. The worldly reflections may be his only catch today, but tomorrow, and the next he will unpack his Kaki bag, fasten hook on nylon, set his reel for tension, casting for the Big one.
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