Birch trees were gilded, maples were covered with grease, and a red leaf fell on the still icy water, blue from the same blue sky, even cold in appearance. In the mornings, the grass turns gray with brittle hoarfrost, but with the burning sun thaws and is covered with a tearful placer.
These years are not hasty for the winter. Just in the morning everything was ossified in a frosty haze, and you already guess how suddenly tomorrow calm waters will catch in with thin ice at first. And with gambling impatience, you begin to sort through winter gear and uniforms. But the day will come, and everything will be repeated all over again: an ice mat in a hoarfrost, frozen water in an old barrel thrown with a leaf, and … a warm, almost summer day.
In the morning I was on a suburban river. He drank water alone with tested oscillators and wobblers. On one casting and winding, the fishing line suddenly stopped, and the lure became heavier many times. It seemed that he had hooked the grass mane with tees, but the grass went to the side, and soon on the fishing line a little beetle elastically twitched, quite decent for a small river. After that, no matter how the water was whipped with a wide variety of baits, there was no grip. Apparently, the reason for the rare pike exits is the small number in these places, albeit not a large pike. Continue reading