It's 8:15; It's time...

Dad's remarks broke the silence announcing it was time for the fish to start biting. It had been time 30 minutes ago, as far as I was concerned. But Dad knows best; the lake must be calm with the early evening stillness contrasting the busy afternoon of jet boats and water skiers.
The Ruler by Day began its graceful retreat appeasing sun worshippers by leaving behind a trail of strawberry jell oozing into the darkening waves that gently rock the pontoon and cradle the four bobbers awaiting the longed for tug, a signal that fish were to be caught. The waves caress the rosey gift of the sun, mixing dark blues to create a exquisite marbling effect that if painted by the most skillful artist one might doubt its realism. Is a lake dark blue and red? At 8:15 in the midst of Pratt Lake it is so. Awaiting the tog on my bobber is not that difficult when there is such grace and color to be contemplated. But wait and wait. No fish yet. Wrong place? Wrong bait? Wrong time? We anticipate and I am reminded of the poem by Emily Dickinson, "Hope is a Thing with Feathers." Hope is the bobber on Pratt Lake. There is beauty in the experience of hoping and a sense of well being in the soul.
P.S. Daniel and I had a wonderful breakfast of blue gills, a gift from Dad and one I caught.