Another jerk of the fishing rod. Another long cast beyond the rocks to the deeper water in the bay. Perhaps there will be another catch. Perhaps not.
It doesn’t matter. The time in solitude, with not another soul in sight, matters. The opportunity to slow the rush of life responsibilities to a hault matters. The mindfulness of the act in the present–jerk the rod, cast the line, see the hook pierce water, hear the gentle plop before its descent–matter.
So much depends on a black fishing rod, dull against the clouded sky, in a pair of cracked hands.
Open water
The ebb and flow
of the tide
for Sue Vincent’sย Thursday photo prompt: Faraway #writephoto
Frank J. Tassone 
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