Caught fishing

Traveled to a little dam called “Broomy” near Rosetta yesterday. It was a gusty day and the prospects of catching a slippery predator were slight. My little PFD short for “Personal floating device,” bobbed up and down in the windy South Westerly. I paddled like a duck with flippers into a quieter corner of the dam where the face of an Otter kept me company as he foraged for his recommended daily allowance. The reeds lanced through the water all around me like soldiers of the lake. The Spur-wing goose took flight, indignant of the intrusion in its sacred precinct. Up on the farm land the full moon stood buoyant between two irrigation water jets as if balanced like a beach ball. The Willows dipped thirsty into the water with their long green straws. The fly-line doing its figure of eight casting neatly between the banks in hope of a tug. These are my off days, my Sabbath, my time, my intimate moments of reverence, my Cathedral. Creation a sacrament around me imbibed with each breath, each sighting, each bird call. It doesn’t have to sing words from a hymnal or preach to convince. The silent whispering of wind, the whistle of a duck, and the splash of the Otter are the unpracticed choir that moves the soul.