Swift as a River

"...vapor hung, straining against the heat of a new day, slowly dissipating as the river rolled in small swells below. Frost clung to the smooth rocks on the bank. My nostrils burned. Vibrant colored leaved fluttered above. Out in the river, water thigh high eddying between his legs, Andreas flung his line into a well shaded pool near the rivers edge. A docile nook rested from the tumult of a surging river beneath over hanging foliage. A rotted stump whose woody entrails pertruded out of russet colored sod and clay, dipped into the water. He stood still, poised, hand on reel. I had cast my line nearly half an hour ago. The neon-pink bobber oscillated with each roll of the swift river. It stood out sharply against the palid water, white with minerals. My pole stood propped between two large rocks just below me, close enough to snatch in a moment. I watched the end twitch like a hyper active reflex. My thoughts wandered onto my kids. I pulled my watch out of the tackle box: 7:56 am. "Julian would love it out here", i mused, picturing his raven hair flitting in the light breeze, a grin stretching his lips taut against his small ivory teeth. The surrounding hills reflected the morning light. It resembled the copper coins that sat just below the rushing water of the fountain in the grotto, flickering metalic green upon tarnished orange.
A small tumbler sat on our coffee table, the ice half melted into the whisky, condensation formed on its sides; my forehead. The Kolingaards - Andreas and Becky- had been over for several hours now, the kids tucked into bed long ago. My head rung with drowsiness and liquor; the incessant talking of our wives resonated like rocks in a can. "6 am then?" Andreas asked across from me, sunk into our sofa. His long wirey legs bent akwardly, knees open with hands plopped between, clutching his tumbler anxiously. Raising my eyebrows I nodded. "Lets go Becky, we have an early morning, Micky and I. He'd called me Micky for years. It was affectionate, I understood, yet still hated the sound of it when itr rolled off his dutch tongue. Becky gestured to collect the dirty plates, yellow grease dribbled in long streaks against the white porcelean. "Oh Becky, please. Miguel and I will grab that. You two go now." My jaded, skeptical mind spoke: No one offers expecting to be taken up on it. She knew we'd excuse her anyways.
That night in bed, Marie in a semi-coma from exhaustion, I laid, mind on elusive Brook trout, Dolly Varden, Brown, Kokanie, Rainbow. These worked upstream against the current of my mind, just below lucid waters. Deeper, some layers beneath, a more elusive breed swam, the ones I really wanted to land, see, handle. My gut churned. Ive applied for so many jobs now, not one bite. Like fishing, finding a job was a matter of appropriate bait and skill linked with timing and location. This move was proving more difficult than I expected. There just werent any bites..."