I can’t see any of what lies below. Only a guess, a feeling that the little seam on the far side ‘seems’ like the place to sit. Just a hunch that they are there lying in wait unfettered by the fast water rushing by. Their sleek bodies slide through it all, waiting for a cue, maybe a change in the current, or the fall of night, or, this morning, the light dawning over leaden skies full of rain. They know those stones where they can just sit and watch it all go by. They see the crawfish poke its head briefly up, colored burnt orange and then disappearing under the cobbles again. The water drops slowly at night and, still, they just sit and wait.
This weekend will mark two weeks without swinging a fly line. While I’ve been out to the river for a couple of brief walks, I’ve yet to participate for any length of time in the refreshed riverscape that is appearing all over. In other words, I’m approaching desperate status for some extended water time.
Shaken Rain 