Autumn's Trout

    The Spongy forest floor is layered with pine needles and fallen cones on top of a network of old roots.

The crisp crackling sounds of the dry fallen leaves and breaking twigs underfoot as I make my way to my

favorite run and riffle. 

    A wisp of the brisk Autumn air reveals the scent of the fragrant spruce and fir lined along this trail to the

river ahead. Two squirrels run across the trail, one chasing the other around the base of an old cedar tree.

The leaves fall onto my path as each step brings me closer to sanctuary. 

    As I enter the river’s haven I am consumed by my surroundings. The painted landscape, my eyes filled

with the red, yellow and orange colors of turning leaves. The afternoon sun shimmers like gold on the river

and dances off the cold runs and riffles.

    Upstream the current crashes into and around a tombstone like rock leaving a spot no doubt for a trout

or two to hold. The river runs swiftly over field of round rocks before entering into a slow run just below me. 

    As I work my feathered offering into the pocket of water behind that tombstone, I take in the aroma of

wood burning from a nearby campsite or cottage. I see a fin and a tail showing behind that rock now. I make

another cast.

    My senses subdued, my mind gets lost in old thoughts from the smell of the burning wood. This is a time of

turnover and waiting, a winter’s purgatory.

    As I look to sky I see the hawks and other birds. I know that it won’t be long before a few of those fowl make

their  winter migration. I make another cast. 

    The leaves fall onto the runs and riffles and my captivating thoughts are broken free with an aggressive take

from that trout. It’s body colorful like an Autumn leaf.

S.F. Britton