Fishing at Dusk

Granddad’s old Browning fly-rod, nine and a half feet, nicely lays the line out. Casting next to the lily pads, the fly drops just inches from the dark green leaves. In a second, the water swirls and I yank, as the line dives below. Pulling just enough on the line to keep the fish from getting it tangled in the lily pads, I work the fish. He comes to the surface, jumping completely out of the water before diving deep. “He’s a nice one,” I think. Keeping the line taut, I allow him to swim back in forth in the deep water, slowly luring him toward the canoe. He begins to tire and I pull him closer and into the net. He’s not as big as I’d thought, but still a nice fish. I remove the hook from his lips and gently place him back into the lake. Wasting no time, he dives deeply into the waters as I look around. The western sky is pink. The waxing moon hangs low in the southeast. Up in the meadows above the lake, fireflies light the night. It’s time to paddle back to the truck and head home.

Driving home, a firefly strikes the windshield. A final flameout, glowing green ooze slides down the glass slowly fading out.