The First Cast

Before the world has fully decided to be awake, he's already at work. The net leaves his hand the same way it has a thousand mornings, not thrown so much as released, the way you let go of something you trust completely to know what to do next. It opens against the sunrise like it's been practicing all night.

The water doesn't mind being disturbed. It never does at this hour, when the light is still making up its mind between gold and rose and the mist hasn't finished leaving. There's a basket in the boat already. There will be weight in it by the time the sun clears the mountains. This is not a question he asks himself anymore.

Some mornings are just this: the arc of the net, the silence before it lands, and a sky that has the good grace to be beautiful while the work gets done.