Dusk at the Pier

He’s at the pier most every day, rain or shine. He lives for the hit that comes when you feel the pole drop—the curve of muscle, no longer free, at the end of the line. He’s back today to feel good, or to run from worse devils. He hooked the walleye, not trophy-sized, but great eating, hoisted it up with a net, and bagged the yanking fish in a white garbage sack. We talked awhile, as he kept fishing, about breading and pan frying, oil and butter. Darker now, the fish still struggled, the bag glistening in the sapphire dusk, twisting until the fish’s face and moist eye, out of the bag now, could see the moon glow.

- Caroline Maun