I came home tonight to an empty house. I didn't expect it to be empty; my husband's car was out front as usual. In fact, I came in the door talking to him, was in mid-sentence before I realized that the only one there to greet me was the cat. Maybe he walked to the store, I thought. He wasn't feeling well today, maybe he wanted some comfort food? Then I saw his note: he'd gone out back to get in some fishing. The guy can't talk because his throat is so sore, but he's down on the river right now on this chilly evening casting a line. For some reason that makes me really happy, despite my concerns for his health. Until yesterday, when our niece compelled him to take her fishing, this guy--who in the past has always had a line in on the water on April 1--hadn't yet made the time to go fishing this spring. Now, hopefully he'll get back in the groove of spending that half-hour or so by himself at the end of each busy day, unwinding down on the river with his rod and flies.

Fisherman alone
with his thoughts, casting them free
into the river.