Do you remember long walks with Pat and Mike and Jake, hunting dogs that graced our lives. Preachers telling me to have no fear. Only darkness, rain and trucks boring into the dawn answer my cries. Dawn finally arrives. I pick up the old fly rod, with its automatic reel and cork handle pitted by decades of hooks, painted gray by years of fish slime and fishy hands, and walk to the lake.
Gray clouds hide the dawn.
I release the fly from the hook-keeper, work out a few yards of line and slap the popper down next to a lily pad. Ripples travel out in ever increasing circles. A soft pop and the popper disappears as a brief hole appears. Instinctively, I tighten the line and feel the heft of a slab bluegill. And, remember other birthdays, bluegills and fishing trips long past.