Nothing Biting

The road ends in gravel and frost-heaved roots. I kill the engine; metal ticks as it cools and the bush presses in, a raven heckling from the treeline. The lake lies dull as metal between black spruce, the dock slick with algae. I carry rod, tackle box, thermos. No one’s here to impress. I bait the hook by feel, fingers already numb, and cast until the line lands softer than a thought.

Grey light on the lake—

bobber holds a single star,

my breath makes it sway.

Time loosens. The first coffee is too hot, burns my lip; the second is already cold. A loon laughs at its own joke across the bay. All morning, the line stays slack. Tiny flies stitch circles over the water, dragonfly wings flash once and vanish, a spider mends its web on the dock cleat by my boot. I check my phone: no bars, so I put it away like something that doesn’t belong to me.

Ants climb through my lunch,

rod propped quiet on the dock,

sun moves without sound.

Hours pass measured only by the angle of light on the ripples and the slow ache in my shoulder. One half-hearted nibble, no fish to show. I reel in, pinch the barb flat, cast once more just to hear the soft zip of line through air. When I finally pack up, the lake looks exactly the same and somehow I don’t.

Hands smell like river,

pockets full of small silence,

I go home slower.