Dog days are here! Hot, stale air sitting on the valley floor. Rivers and streams down to lower flows. Trout skittish. Drips of sweat roll down the back. Drops like shower water run off the face and chin. Salt-eyes burn. You can taste the savor when you lick your lips or just open your mouth to breath. Colored line in tight loops cannot move enough air to create wind. At high noon there is no one else on the water. Others wait until the cool of evening and approach the water with the bats. They have learned that the largest trout hide in bright sun.
Walking through the tall grasses, hoppers leap like flushed game birds. You watch as some hoppers land in the water. Quick swirls and audible splashes and they disappear. Concentric rings migrate to nothing as a witness that water holds life. You wait and watch. You remember. It doesn't seem that long ago that you were young and you would run to the water. Now, you walk. You've learned to sneak.
You feel the breeze hit the wetness of your neck. Eighty degree chill brings bumps to the skin. You listen. What does the wind whisper when only a slight breeze? That is the secret. Not everyone gets to hear the secret. You have to earn what the soft wind can teach. No matter how old you get, you are always a student at the river's edge.