Gordon's Choice
“Drop the anchor,” you say.
We awake at dawn, mist still hovering above the lake. The loons call from beyond the veil, the water smooth like glass.
We pull on tattered caps and you push weather-beaten oars, our poles flush to our sides.
The beach has disappeared. “Take these.” You hand me the Styrofoam cup, I wrestle with a worm, and we cast off, reels humming.
Soon, your line tugs and goes taught. You grin, wind, and investigate the findings. I pinch my eyes closed.
I open my eyes. The water ripples in circles and your catch swims away.
We awake at dawn, mist still hovering above the lake. The loons call from beyond the veil, the water smooth like glass.
We pull on tattered caps and you push weather-beaten oars, our poles flush to our sides.
The beach has disappeared. “Take these.” You hand me the Styrofoam cup, I wrestle with a worm, and we cast off, reels humming.
Soon, your line tugs and goes taught. You grin, wind, and investigate the findings. I pinch my eyes closed.
I open my eyes. The water ripples in circles and your catch swims away.
