More Fishing

A young man is fishing on the pond this morning. He's a blur of white t-shirt and baggy jeans, constant motion. Cast and reel, cast and reel. Every other cast or so, he reels in a small fish, which he unhooks and throws back.

He's tall and thin and has facial hair that's longer than stubble but not quite a beard. The hair on his head is the same length as the hair on his face except for a tuft at the center, the human version of a cockatiel's crest. His expression has not changed in the 20 minutes I've been watching him: not when he caught fish, not when he inexplicably turned and kicked the holy heck out of his child-sized trick bicycle, not when his reel sailed into the pond mid-cast.

A parade of fishermen has materialized over this holiday weekend: a young father who paid more attention to his tackle than to his daughter toddling between the banks of two ponds, middle-aged men puttering with high-tech fishing gear, a grandfather and his adolescent grandson with decidedly low-tech poles. They've arrived with lawn chairs and coolers and tackle boxes, individually and in small groups. Some bring music. They all bring liquid refreshment.

Not one of them has caught a fish worth the time it would take to fillet it, probably not a collective mouthful over the entire weekend. I don't think it's fish they're after. I think the fish are just an excuse to spend a little time watching the reflections on the pond.

I have no excuse, only a reason: It brings me joy.