03/15/2026
A couple hours of sleet and freezing rain passed through early this morning, concentrating my drive to work. Across the river the low clouds embraced the bluffs, concealing them, as, nearer, the fog reached down in a thin haze to just barely touch the water, softening the world. A careful, beautiful drive.
I wrote the following a few weeks ago. I include it now for no good reason:
These are suspect days on the Mississippi. While much of the main channel is open, there are still large areas of skim ice on the river, and it takes only a night or two below freezing to glaze the entire surface once again. Crossing the long, open bridge on my way to the shop. passing by a large backwater between a couple islands, I look down to see a lone, canvas-sided ice-fishing shanty sitting silently out in the snowy open. A fisherman.
I'm thinking there's probably a man inside, though she could be a woman, or anybody, really.
I see him as a devoted outdoorsman, smart, tough and experienced, though he could be just a damn fool taking reckless chances on thin ice.
Then I imagine him a contemplative of some kind, a seeker of wisdom with a tip-pole, cultivating in the dim light of his artificial cave a spiritual fulfillment, a transcendental peace. Isn't this what fishermen do, really?
It's all just brief conjecture as I zip past in my car. If I were a comic strip artist, the last panel would show me motoring serenely out of sight as a cat emerges from the shanty with a fish in its mouth, and, above the open doorway a sign: "Keep Out! Property of Schrodinger."
