The Forlorn Fisherman

In a dream, I saw a man fishing.  He was standing in a field and casting his line into wind blown waves of grass.  Standing in brownish-green hip waders, wearing a khaki vest, his beaver felt fedora shaded his eyes from the low morning sun.  I thought this was rather odd.

I stood upon a high place.  Looking down from a steep, rocky hillside, I could see the man fishing in the a broad valley meadow.  I could see a river also, just over the ridge from where he fished.  He walked easily from place to place to change the target of his casts, but there were no fish swimming in the meadow.  What he sought there, he would never find.
I could see his truck also, in the distance.  It was parked at the side of a gravel road.  He had opened the fence gate and walked a considerable distance down into the valley, but stopped short of the river.  It was as if he didn’t know the river was near.  Surely, the man would not have impatiently ended his hike to begin the fishing early!
The perversity of circumstances burned within me.  I thought to myself, “This absurdity must be set aright!”  I determined to let this man know that what he was seeking was not there, but further along.  I shouted at him to take up his hike and continue; to walk with endurance all the way to the goal.
“It’s just over one more climb, my good man!”
But he didn’t hear me, and I saw the man continue fishing in the valley meadow grass.  

4 thoughts on “The Forlorn Fisherman

  1. Thanks, Philip. Mental activity during rides, for me, varies greatly. Sometimes blank, sometimes processing the terrain and riding technique, and sometimes solving a problem or praying.For this strange story, I had an idea and cooked it a little during my route to Gainesville.

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