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.







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