It's a strange luxury to be able to predict with absolute precision how many fish I will catch this weekend. For one thing, it has permitted me to write an entry before-hand, but it also sadly means that the cold beginning of December won't see this average steelheader on any riverside.
I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I needed to repay the prime female in my life, for some of her patience this fall. As I write this, she's out with the girls, laughing herself silly and anticipating something she hasn't experienced in a long, long time: a late rise from bed tomorrow morning. The boys are blissfully asleep, but I'm just waiting for Isaac's nightly protest over a wet diaper, while I write & prepare formula. I hope it's soon, because my morning won't be looking like the caption, above. It'll be looking like this.
I love them, all three; but I admit to the deep temptation to sample tomorrow's high waters here in the east. And Sunday's clearing flows... And there's an itch at the core of all the bones of my right arm, as though even the marrow is asking "where's the rod? when's the next cast?"
Oh, but "papa" can bide his time. Not just for next weekend, by which point the debt will be paid; but I have two sons. Most likely, they won't be shopping for skirts with mommy at any point in the future.
This is good, I say to myself as I fill the bottles for tomorrow morning's hyena's feast. This is very good indeed (insert evil laugh here).