My rod hand hurts. Every aperture of integument clogged with greasy sweat and 70 degree dewpoints giving it nowhere to evaporate. This eutrophic urban fishery the color, clarity, and temperature of a nice bowl of miso soup.
Masquinonge? Qua? Ain’t seen one.
I busted off my lucky popper. I drank beer from the bottle and hurled long loops and stripped line like it was a job and rowed Squatto in circles under the landing pattern of Delta jets in purple Minneapolis dusk, the far shore blurry with haze. It was a sticky, humid, high summer evening. Bass were slurping, carp were jumping, the lake sang the body electric for a few minutes at dusk but nobody was playing eat the fly.
There’s a tribe for this, I know, but some of us are still in the desert. If you can’t beat them, eat the locusts.
