We could see the eddies carrying algae
downstream where some fly fishermen
had recently gone to whip their rods.
She said, “I’ll catch a brook trout this time.
It’ll be a lunker. You’ll see.”
I said, “Of course you will, after I do.”
My dad would be arriving soon, dangling
worms in our faces. In the amusing way
of this place, rainbow trout leapt into the fog
before splashing down to tempt us to travel to
the end of the rainbow with almonds and parsley.
“Powerbait,” she said, “is the best way
to get a few nibbles.” I said,
“Which color works best: pink, yellow, or orange?”
We had known each other for ages
so my love for her, like a patchwork quilt
draped across me, reflected my experiences
in a simplified way as if they were viewed
through fragments of stained glass
collected from a church’s floor and whose edges
had been sanded into smoothness. “Your luck,”
she whispered, “your skill, your instinct
will lead the way.” Her forehead glistened
with diamonds of sweat. “You’re the expert,”
I said, but I pointed to the jar with the
highlighter yellow balls. The raindrops
were drumbeats. “You’ve got this,”
she muttered, “I’ll bet there’s a hungry fella
eyeing your bait.” Trolling is the process
by which one trails a baited line
behind a boat but how, how?
With the current’s help. I know that now,
as long as the line doesn’t snag, anyhow.
Emily Dorffer is a current undergraduate at Johns Hopkins University. She has previously had a short story published in Breath & Shadow.