I hadn’t contemplated the distinction between habit, ritual and obsession until now. A stubborn low pressure system parked off the west coast at the end of August sends waves of warm, humid air across the coast, raises goosebumps among the tuna fishermen, but plunges the interior into an unsettled, wavering weather pattern that will surely confuse any fresh steelhead enough to ignore any of my offerings. Afternoon winds wander through the gorge without purpose, and continue to swirl about at sunset somehow dispelling that all-too-short witching hour moment before it all fades into inky blackness amongst frog choirs lathered in waves of crickets and sprinkled with the sounds of splashing fish.
It didn’t happen last night or tonight.
Leave the coast with a stoic confidence that it’s all an easy game of fetch and return home with the resolve that tomorrow will be different.
Habit? Ritual? Obsession?
Shaken Rain 