I had been writing until the window turned pale. Rather than go to bed, I packed a flask and walked down to Orchid Shoal. The bay was so still that each stake along the shore had an identical partner beneath it.
A violet feather jig lay in the bottom of my bag. It looked theatrical in the clear morning light, but underwater the feathers folded into a small dark shape. I cast beside a stake and let it sink beyond its reflection.
Colour at the edge of morning
The first bass took without a splash. It drew the line into a neat diagonal and carried on as though the rest of us were an inconvenience. I walked along the sand, feeling the fish change direction through the bend of the rod.
When it reached the shallows, the rising sun turned its scales gold. I let it go and finally drank the coffee, which had become cold enough to be honest. Back at the station, I crossed out the opening line of my dispatch. This was a morning story after all.
Change the hour and a familiar shore becomes somewhere new.
