lost tribe

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.