What is Fishing? Ch. 1

Chapter One

While my cork bobs, I watch a little yellow leaf float by. A haiku comes to mind:

Dainty yellow leaf--
swirling, floating, magic thing
Lovely, silent boat 

The point? Fishing allows thought, meditation, relaxation, and perseverance, and, occasionally, annoyance. Right on the edge of this water body--in my case--a bayou, grows a significant cypress, scarred by beaver teeth around its lower trunk, the part along the water's edge. 

However, this cypress has become my Christmas tree. I'm adding ornaments, one at a time, my little orange bobbers, source of my annoyance. At this point I've already added five. One dangles by its gossamer line, almost touching the water. I fish between it and a low-hanging branch. Eventually, my line will be caught by one or the other. And it is. My fishing line and the decorative line entwine and I yank both right off this majestic tree. Less one ornament, a gain of my fishing line. The lines entangle and I fish with two bobbers with only a short line allowing the hook to sit just inches below the surface.

Ah, fishing.