Most years around this time in fall I find a sense of sadness creeping in on each trip afield. Those first fallen sycamore leaves scattered on the stones, the deer changing from summer reddish brown to winter gray, the shorter days, all these and more combine to mark the passage of time. And this feeling can push me into full blown panic trying some years to not waste the fleeting moments left in the year by fishing every available second left. I'd been fortunate this year and had caught a couple smallmouth bigger than I deserved and I'd had a few successful trips into the mountains for both trout and stripers and a day catching catfish in such numbers that I'd be branded a liar if I'd told the whole truth of it. And I finally devoted enough time to hybrid fishing to feel like I'm getting a real handle on it. So my usual frantic fall fishing has been a bit calmer than other years. But tonight I could almost feel the end of the good easy fishing standing there watching and waiting. And so I burst out the door of work racing to the river and then stayed into darkness. Late enough that you turn the rod around backwards when walking out, pointing it behind you so you don't break the thing in the bushes in the dark. But tonight it was worth it. A nice fish clobbering the curly shad as soon as it hit the water, tailwalking on the surface, pulling drag then coming off right under my feet. Then it's twin hitting on the very next cast but not coming off this time. Then smaller golden smallmouth one after another. I try not to be so greedy that I can't take a moment to admire each for a second before releasing them. It's possible, especially in fall, to get so greedy for that next fish that you find you have caught six or seven fish and not taken a good look at any of them. It's a definite character flaw I've been working on for a while. Some days with more success than others.  Tonight was a good night, the evening comfortable after the days heat, the light shining on the water but not penetrating the blue shadows of the woods, the only sounds the whispering of the river and the far off call of an owl. One of those nights on the river where I'm comfortable in my own skin and all is right with the world,