Reflections

This afternoon after the thunderstorms blew over, I took my daughter down the wooded path beneath sparkling trees with raindrop-covered leaves resplendent in the sunlight.  We walked carefree through the wet grasses and enjoyed the raucous birdsong and the clean, fresh smell of the newly washed forest. At the base of the hill, her tiny hand in mine, we crossed the makeshift bridge of three old landscaping timbers laid side-to-side over the small outlet, and stepped onto the grassy berm of our small pond. 

Perhaps a quarter acre all told, no lunkers lie waiting in its tanon stained waters, unless you count the bulbous-headed bullfrog tadpoles rippling the water's surface in their awkward and hasty retreats. 

"Look, Daddy! I can see the clouds!" exclaims my daughter as she peers down into the waters searching for hidden mysteries.   I do my best to explain reflections as I carefully mash a piece of cheese onto the tiny hook and adjust the little red bobber. Angles and light and density. How does one put that into 3-year-old-ese?  I don't. I just throw it all against the wall of her mind and wait to see what sticks. I am always amazed. Always. 

The fingerling pumpkinseed is a wiley quarry, cautious and cunning, but we two are accomplished fisherfolk. Our first catch of the day comes mere seconds after the hook hits the water; a tiny sunny with barely enough weight to sink the bobber. My daughter's laugh sparkles like the raindrops as we carefully fill the purple bucket with pond water and place the little fish within.  A second follows in quick succession before our luck turns. 

Hook after baited hook drop into the water only to be stripped clean of Polly-O string cheese, but we are not to be defeated. My daughter's laughter again rings out, "Daddy! That sneaky fish stoled our cheese again!"  In the end, we land that "sneaky fish" and one more of his friends.

Proud and triumphant my little girl declares, "Daddy, I'm getting a little cold.  Will you carry me home?"  And so we gently pour our trophies one by one back into the pond, and I carefully stow the pink princess rod and the purple bucket before scooping her up into my arms. 

Walking back up the hill beneath the sparkling trees with my daughter's arms wrapped tightly around my neck, I know with a certainty this will be my most successful outing of the season and the one I'll remember many years from now when she has grown and gone off seeking quiet wooded paths of her own.