Trout Whisperer - Little waves

How absolutely beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, these tiny little ripples, free from winter’s ice, and they ain’t got a clue how to be a wave yet, they’re so new, even to themselves.

They slide, a rhythm of the many, catching the blue of sky above, like the scent of the freshest mowed lawn of the season or a new fuzzy duckling. Everything to its time, that will come soon enough, but not this day, this is gentle nose in my nostrils, warmth, no churned turbid water, little waves of enthusiasm, at my feet soundless, they don’t even swish the beach I trod upon.

If I could follow one, just a one wave, but my eyes get swept over so much of the newness, and I have missed my waves. I remember the tossed ones I set this lake to rest with. Novembers, ducks, divers, the birds that make your earn your duck dinner. Feet spraddled over the froth, I was glad to be safe of them. Same lake, today, just eye pleasing in so many waves of waves.

Nobody’s looking, I wave my hand at them, thanks, to all of you. I kick my boot in the wetness meeting the shore, they softly weep in, ease back away, making new littleness waves at my feet. I wanna put one in my pocket and take it home. This the lake forbids, and I must obey, my little waves.

- The Trout Whisperer