Plucking at last evening’s ashes, there’s not a red glow anywhere; we retinder, rekindle, light the match; it catches; we add firewood; then the magic potion tonic pot of soon-to-be-boiled beans is suspended above the small flame.
The first burp in the tiny glass portal, a second; it’s a brewing, glory of glories you can’t imagine how bad we want a cup of that this morning.
He readies the boat; the morning’s chill has my down jacket zipped up. I fill the thermos; make no mistake, I didn’t spill a drop. I hung the pot back up for the late shift.
We motor out quietly, he hands me his mug; I fill it, it’s a steaming piece of eye candy to which I pour myself its twin, from the stern he hoists his cup, I return the gesture, I look back at the small campsite, little puff of smoke easing offshore out over the placid water, the suns rise is leaking into today about as fast as the coffee is easing into me. We round the point, find the underwater ledge, an unseen loon heralds in the mist of the morning, I sip my coffee, he wants a refill to which I usher, then completely out of the blue, so unusual of a thing for him to do, he leans back in the boat, puts his boots on the gunnel, says this morning, I’m not gonna fish until I finish enjoying this cup of coffee, like a sheep lead to pasture, I threw my boots up, took another sip, yeah that’s sounds good to me to.
--The trout whisperer
