Just beyond the suburbs a Pike, grown old and wily, has stationed himself to take advantage of the deeper water as the stream narrows. He (and I always imagine him as a he) stirs, but not for anything with my line attached to it. Would that I were at the water now; there’s an evening rise of Trout and Grayling snatching anything half hatched that’s failed its Promethean mission and fallen to the stream. The old predator waits, confident that guile honed on long experience will let him feast on the easy pickings of youthful enthusiasm. I can almost feel his slow eyes watching as he waits to flick the hunters switch, turning the stillness of the wait into the lightening of his strike. But alas I’m far away, helping Bushwacker Jnr with his homework and the bait shop is closed.
Thanks for reading
Bushwacker.
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