First of July.

It looks like July.

It is July, I realize, wheeling by overgrazed pasture and the stubble of mown hay.

One car in the parking lot, backed in at an odd angle, still an improvement over last time. I’m a little surprised, though it’s hot, and supposed to rain in the afternoon, and maybe others thought better of it. All the way down I figured I’d work my way up, flicking a bushy dry fly under streamside brush. But I didn’t feel it, there in the moment, and worked my way downstream, dropping sizes until I arrived at a little tan elk hair caddis.