Bittersweet.

That is how I view it.

Though it was a beautiful morning, the fog lay eerily on the calm river surface.  A sign that the now cold night air is clashing with the still warmer waters of this tiny finger of the Chesapeake Bay. But in the developing bright sunshine of this late October day, it doesn’t take long for the mist to clear.

Activity on the water this time of the year is slow to materialize.  The crabbers are gone, the trotlines and crab pots, now replaced by a lone work boat dropping eel pots instead.

The purple martins, one of the early messengers of the approaching spring, are also gone, having already made their migration south to winter in Brazil. The three purple martin houses now sitting atop their high poles vacant in the wind.

Optimistically I baited the crab pots and threw them in for one last attempt to hold on to the summer and enjoy its flavors.  But only two crabs were interested in my chicken necks on this day.

Hardly the crab feast I had hoped for.

I let them go.

Stealing some words from Bowie, I realized I couldn’t trace time, but I could be sure that time would change me.

There is no fighting that.

Giving in,  I lowered the martin houses to protect them from the cold winds to come.

I brought in the crab pots.

Removing the traces and putting an end to another season.

 

 

Winter will soon be upon us.

The sunset, which at the peak of the summer would be straight up the river, now has shifted to the left as it begins its descent earlier than I would like.

The shorter days invite the darkness in sooner than I am ready and I pack up my fishing gear after catching one small perch to put the finishing touches on my day and probably my fishing year.

It was another beautiful October day.

In contrast to the gloom looming in my winter fears, the flowers I planted sometime around Mother’s Day, still stand tall and exhibit their bright colors, awaiting the frost soon to come.

Who knows what the next six months will bring?

Until then I will keep warm and wait for the day when the first martin returns.

And I will pray that in that six months, time doesn’t change me too much.

And I will be allowed to write about another beautiful day, in another season, in another year, in time.