Like the beaches of Cancún, nothing casts shadows.
Grandpas’ hands, long fingers and palms wrapped
loosely in pale, almost transparent skin, illuminated by the anxious lake surrounding us.
Shaking, he delicately tilts the fishing pole back toward us after
we catch the slippery pumpkin sunfish.
The fish is flailing to escape, ironically making the fishing line,
a single spindle of spider-web,
shudder,
as if a spider overtaking it’s prey at the end.
One lanky hand releases the pole to hold the line above the fish,
slowly sliding down, until concealing the fish’s sharp fins with an experienced grip.
“Is the fish slippery and hard to hold?” I ask.
“A tight grip once you reach the fish is the key.” He says.