I remember fishing with
my grandfather in Ontario where

the crystal blue waters of Eagle Lake
stretched for miles. Red boats lined up

like soldiers glinting in
the sunlight. Grizzled old men smelling

of fish and worms stampeded
toward the dock, leaving my grandfather and me

coughing in a cloud of dust. We
ambled down to our boat.

The motor
sputtered and finally grew

to a thunderous roar, and we
sped off. The water, white and frothy from

the blurred revolutions of the motor,
splashed up in my face and stung my cheeks.

Hours later after absolutely
no activity, a slight tug

jerked my grandfather's pole.
He sprang into action,

leaning back with all
his might, pulling

the end of the line. Ten minutes
later, with sweat beads dripping

down his forehead and
burning his eyes,

a twig surfaced. then
a bigger branch, then
the whole trunk. Dejected, my grandfather
pulled his hat down tighter, turned

his back to me, and I just stared
at the back of his head,

imagining his embarrassment and
trying to hide my laughter.