Last evening I went kayaking. And fishing. I caught the tail end -- in many ways the best end -- of the longest day of the year. I was alone on the water until 9:30; the sky was still beautifully aglow, the sun unwilling to quit behind the reclining edges of the earth.
About 8:45 I caught a largemouth, about 15 inches long, and gently released it into the cool waters. The waxing gibbous moon touched the violet sky to the south and east. At the top of the 9 o'clock hour the church bell chimed at the far end of the pond, its final peal trembling softly over lily pads and through pickerel weed, faintly shaking the still air beyond the quiet woods and the far-off fringes of winter.
I paddled down the outlet to the winding, lazy Moose Brook, quietly wending my way home. A beaver startled me at the break of one bend, slapping its tail seemingly right inside my eye. I had to lay back on my kayak -- my legs extended along the bow -- to glide beneath the old bridge, my hands touching the damp, rusted steel beams a couple of inches from my face. I climbed onto shore with more effort than last year, and dragged my kayak across the lawn toward my house. I moved with gratitude, and reluctance.
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