Bobbing now and then on gently rounded waves. The shimmering surface is in sharp contrast between the darkest depths and the reflection of sunlight.
I close the jar of brightly colored bait and place it back in the old metal box. Listening to hollow sounds eminating from the hull as the water laps against the side. Stretching over the hot dry floor, I push aside the old ropes at my feet, and prop a seat cushion behind my head. Somewhere on the highway above a truck grumbles for attention as it passes by. Glancing up I can only see the fir lined hillsides which are punctuated by faces of tan rock. Much closer a dragonfly hovers silently then turns to investigate the hum of a boat flopping and splashing down around the bend.
A warm breeze mixes the smell of lake water and outboard gasoline. A lone cloud against a deep blue sky barely moves along. I suppose if the fishing pole moves then I'll be able to hear it.

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