Another trip, another visit.
Familiar territory, yet far from the balmy days of Florida.
Here, the seasons seem to step backward—
Spring still hesitating, chilly winds biting where sun should warm.
Hopes of stream time fade with the frost.
Maybe next trip.
Back to the balmy rhythm of my new home down south,
where the mangroves hum and the water remembers me.
Maybe the snook, tarpon, and redfish will be in a generous mood.
Maybe they’ll dance this time.
But now, the early mayfly hatches tease the water’s surface—
a flicker of life in the cold.
They bring with them a nostalgic reminder—
of rising trout and quiet mornings,
of my old home waters and past glory
found in perfect drifts and well-earned takes.
I watch the mist rise off the chilly water,
silent and slow like breath.
No signs of life—not yet. The brookies are down there, tucked into the sandy bottoms, still and patient, biding their time,
waiting for the hatch.
They must be hungry.
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