Piscator

Over decades of dreaming, sometimes dark, sometimes clearly, dreams of fish have persisted. I often wonder about their power. It was luck that I grew up on a lake and to have my morning routine start off with a visit to the water to see what was visiting the shore. This meant a quiet tip-toe and intense watching long before I reached the dock. (One step on the dock, even for a 6 year old, was a trigger for the fish to dash away.)
     The water conditions were very clear with indirect sunlight passing through the trees on the south shore. There, one could be sure of seeing something every day: a half-dozen young bass, invisible but for their black-striped tails waggling slowly into deeper water; a school of swirling bullhead minnows, black-barbed little beauties just a foot or two from the shore; an elongated pike, hunting for bluegills, and off to the north with one thrust. A piece of bog may have blown up during the night to provide shelter for the pan-fish. A snapping turtle might be off the end of the dock.
     Sometimes the dreams are of fishing: the haul might include a talking fish, or one as big as the lake, or a school of fish of various colors.
     I'll be writing more about each of the images in Oasis in the coming days.