Flotsam & Jetsam: The Fishing Prophet Comes

— a semi-regular humor column by Maurice Austin —

Last week while enjoying the chirping and buzzing sounds of Spring there came a long awaited guest to my rental cabin’s fence. Not a Robin with its beak full of worms, not a Redwing Blackbird with its melodic trill, not even a Hummingbird poking at points of color: this bird was of a sort political, of a sort practical, of a sort a way of life.

‘Twas a Falcon I so anticipated, shows up this time every year, and there it was, rougher for the weather but perched proudly upon the garden fence. Comes from the South every year, this time of year, to report on the North.

I smiled, and took a seat with notebook and pen, to duly record the report of the North of Falcon agreements, to set my angling plans in accordance. “Greetings, Harbinger,” I addressed the Falcon. “Same as last year?”

The Falcon swiveled its head. On one eye, it wore a shredded leather patch, as if recently blinded by a beneficent if incapable master. It fixed its good eye upon me, and croaked, “Nevermore.”

I tapped pen on pad. Has the Falcon been reading Poe? What about the fishing? Are we good to go?
“Marine area seven still one salmon a day?” I said, pen poised and eyebrow kinked. Have a couple electric downriggers to install, is all, and will wire a dual battery system next week to chase those August Kings. Given the nod, I’ll purchase a starting battery and move the house battery amidships.

But the Falcon did not nod. Turned away instead, and cawed, “Nevermore.”

The pen grew awkward in my hand. But but but, what about fishing? What about those long summer trolling hours I’d anticipated, putt-putting along a Westside contour? How will I feed my hungry freezer?
The Falcon swiveled and affixed a brief gaze, then turned to preen its tribal wing. The other hung low, askew, nearly limp.

“Surely, still, with flies on the North Fork Stilly, we’ll have some steelhead, and on the rivers in the fall, our normal all?” I pleaded, impatient. Usually, this Falcon is fruitful, even eloquent.

But not this year. With a flush of wing and creased brow it did sing: “Nevermore!” And then alighted, and over my jaw agape did soar. And I watched it disappear into the distance, until it became a speck, and knew so there go I.

Tapped my pad, made a note: “Boats will be sold cheap this summer.”