First of April.

I had a dream a golden stonefly exuvia drifted down between my legs and so I woke up and went. Could’ve called John or Paul but it’s Good Friday and I didn’t know I was going until I was in the car and I didn’t know where I would park until I got to the lot.

I tied on an old familiar pattern, an amber yarn body palmered with ginger hackle and a pair of black rubber legs sticking out both ends, and had a couple wiggles at the bridge. I took off March. It shows.Perhaps slow fishing is penance.

Perhaps the creek’s more popular among the furloughed crowd, although I’ve only seen the footprints of other anglers and a couple pairs or hikers. A couple middle-aged women. A young couple kitted out and their golden retriever, searching for the trailhead with their dying cell phone.

Perhaps the same folks hoarding toilet paper and antimalarials cleaned out the creek in the name of self-preservation.

Perhaps bored state employees finally had time to shock and study this stretch of creek, everything else shuttered.

Perhaps high water has sent them into hiding.

Perhaps it’s just too damn bright and sunny.

Perhaps they’ve had an odd spring, too.

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