Sipping tea while the afternoon dies away, tying midge emergers — because you never know — and trying to forget that sooner or later I’ll have to get down. The radio would play jazz covers of pop songs.
Some may object that it’s not jazz, but I guess that would be the malignant cells brooding a pancreatic tumor speaking for them.
and when the evening fishing is over, when the fireside dinner has been nice and the red wine has been drank, it’s time to retire and be cosy in a tiny sphere, under the infinity of space and the incurious stars.
In such a place someday I’ll be getting ready for winter while fishing hard everyday on a wooden canoe. And putting order in my thoughts because when the white would be covering things and sounds, I would be writing this book on the metaphysics of fly fishing that no one seems to have written yet.
Who said a fishing shack should be a wooden nostalgic affair? A good dose of modernism will not hurt, and will perfectly compliment the space age stuff they use to make waders, blanks, lines and leaders. I’ll wait for the evening hatch with a Glen Rothes, listening to the Dialogue de l’ombre double.