The fireflies appeared while I was packing up. First a few over the bank, then a whole flickering crowd between the trees. I sat back down. It would have been rude to leave before the evening’s entertainment had properly begun.
A tiny bell lure was still attached to the rod. I cast it toward the dark gap between two reflections and brought it back as slowly as I could. The bell barely sounded. Somewhere ahead, the surface folded around a broad back.
THE LAKE HAS THE LAST WORD
The bass took close to the boat. I remember the sudden weight, the lantern swinging and an astonishing quantity of water entering my left boot. I also remember telling the fish that we could discuss this like adults. It declined.
The hook came free just beyond the net. For a moment the brass bell hung above the water, ringing softly while the fireflies carried on. I finally packed up. At home I explained that the extra hour had been a cultural obligation. Nobody asked for details.
Some evenings deserve overtime, even without a catch to show for it.
