Issue 62 - Winter Fishing
Winter fishing. No feeling in my fingers but a distinctly sharpening smart at the edges of my ears. Reel grease thickening, the line icing in the rings of the rod. And then the water, as dead as dead, lead grey under a lowering sky.
Yes, perhaps even I, with my overwhelming obsession to be out there in all seasons and all weathers, will be glad when I’m too old for this. Freezing fog slowly lifting. Freezing is the word, bitter indeed.
Slivers and tiny transparent structures of ice between the marcescent stems of reeds and rushes. On the modern scales of Celsius and centigrade, the chill would be read at less than no degrees at all. Nothingness. No temperature, nothing.
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