It’s been months. I snuck down a couple weeks ago, walking along bare bank that had been pool back in June. Felt bad for the fish, stacked up in a couple deeper pools. Put my rod down and drank a beer and watched them. Counted them, grouped them by size- fish over sixteen inches, over twelve, over six.
It rained Thursday, and yesterday, and this morning. An inch and a half soaked straight into thirsty ground. Daytime temperatures dropped from nineties to upper seventies, fifties and sixties at night. The sycamores started dropping their leaves; everything else is beginning to turn. Goldenrods are going to seed, I pick milkweed pods and coneflower burrs for the native bed back home. You can hear the chickadees in the trees, now that the warblers headed south.
The clouds burn off to my dismay and I fish the run I watched a few weeks back in bright mid-day sun. I hook two fish before landing one. Everything is damp and muggy, and the picture comes out muggy.
But it counts.
The outside bend. 
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