As I write this, I hear the rain pounding outside. It eats away at a thin layer of slush that I thought might be the start of winter. I considered going fishing, but elected to stay home, write, and tie flies, "Better to be prepared for next season" I reason. November always presents herself before I am ready, still giddy from recent October fishing trips. Like the last kiss of a relationship, you usually don't know the "last day" when you are fishing it. But on a day like today I'm forced to think back to a few weeks prior, and realize, " I may not pick up the rod again until spring." It is a bittersweet thought, the memories of the season flash through my mind like a movie montage that I will need to wait to see again.