John exhaled, watching his breath swirl in the cold morning air as he chipped away at the ice on his windshield. Another morning, another layer of frost, another two months of winter ahead. The snowbanks lining his driveway stood high, and the dull gray sky above promised more to come. It had been a long winter already, and he was tired of shoveling, tired of the cold, tired of waiting.
But next week was Groundhog Day.
He smirked at the thought. Some people put their faith in that little rodent, hoping for an early spring. John, though, had his own way of measuring time—he was counting the days until the trout would rise.
He could picture it already. The ice on the river breaking apart, the water running free again. The first warm days of March, when the sun felt strong enough to bring the river back to life. He imagined standing at the edge of the stream, rod in hand, watching for the telltale ripple of a trout breaking the surface.
The thought warmed him more than the car’s heater ever could. Soon, the air would carry the scent of damp earth instead of frozen stillness. The trees would bud, and the insects would return, drawing the trout up from the depths, hungry and waiting.
John finished scraping the windshield and slid into the driver’s seat, his mind still on the water. Winter wasn’t done yet, but it wouldn’t last forever. The promise of rising trout was out there, just beyond the ice and snow.
And that was enough to get him through.
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