Two days of fishing in ponds which in the past have yielded a plethora of large mouth bass have so far provided one small fish a few inches bigger than the lure it struck and a great amount of snarled-line, algae-covered frustration.
Faith flees in a flash when one’s constant casts come up empty. Some invisible angler has come here on the sly and stolen all of the big ones. The algae have caused a catastrophic fish kill. The fish are gorged on spring peepers. Regardless the reason, the bass do not bite my line and run with it. I cast and receive only fears.
These ponds are my artist life currently; full, but surrendering no swimmers. Yet I hear the voice of Ovid: “Chance is always powerful. Let your hook be always cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be fish.”
I have a choice, but not really, so with aching arm and burning brain, I continue to cast.
April 17, 1998