Scud

I watch the next gust work it's way upstream. The water turns dark as the cattails bow in submission, and then, as quickly as it came, passes on upstream, shredded remnants of its recent visit now quietly floating past and away.

A gray, forbidding sky pursues several geese looking for shelter while a parading muskrat casually turns pinwheels just below the surface with vines of grass he's selected.

After a cast upstream just inches from the bank, I usually let it settle for a second or two before I begin the slow, very slow, erratic retrieve. But the geese and the muskrat have presently provided a diversion. My scud sits where it landed, unattended.

Muskrats are cool. They have so much personality. After shooting me a look, he waddles up the muddy bank oblivious to everything except his grasses, which he now samples, looking, I guess, for the tender young shoots which are probably the best tasting.

I get that far with my observation when I am made aware of a movement to my left. Turning, I watch my fly line slowly straightening as it submerges itself.

Trout are mind readers. They know the exact instant you space out.