There’s a pull to the farm pond, even if that stereotypically Midwestern sense of obligation means you’ll mow the lawn and mulch the front and fix the mailbox, first. A much needed haircut can be put off a bit longer; groceries can wait ’til you get back.
You’ll spin up a couple sponge spiders with wiggly red rubber legs and pitch them sidearm under overhanging willows and mulberries- the braver you are, the bigger the bluegill. The hook’s too heavy for the foam so the bug suspends an inch or two under the surface, a happy accident mimicking a dragonfly nymph headed toward cattails and rushes ringing the pond.
The bulges and dimples and swirls transmit interest, the twitch of the line signals the take. You have a beer and fish past dusk, as the swallows are replaced by bats and you hear toads trilling along the bank.