It was early and raining and still dark, and I was cold but didn’t know it, and I was reaching for another take. And I didn’t want the gray light to rise to day. I was knee deep on freestones and blind to the world outside the gentle sound of a river and the pull of small water on my line. Time, was still unborn.
When the day is so young and has yet to dawn and awake, it is full of hope and unaware of it. The almost morning only knows the moment and its possibility. And to the fly fisherman, that possiblity is on the rise. The day doesn’t know of change, or of seasons or rest. Or inevitabilities, and their wonder and defeat. And the near light is absent of endings, as absent as its own beginning.
Dark morning is a natural time to fish, and to fish by feel and sound. And with any luck, with eyes later open, to do the same in the coming day.