He shifted the cane fishing pole in his grip, leaned back in the lawn chair, and yawned. Gnats flitted in his ears and eyes, but at least it was cooler there under the cypresses by the pond. The surface of the water was still, mirroring a green border of trees that framed a pale hole of sky overhead. He could easily nap here, even without the help of the beers in the cooler next to him.
He felt a tug on the pole and watched the rippling echo of the the bright orange cork as it bobbed in the water. No bite all day, and now there was something playing with his line. He scowled, watchful. The cork was still now. He reached for his beer.
The cork bobbed once, twice, then ducked beneath the surface of the pond, flashing into view a second later and two feet to the left. No doubt about it, he thought, something was on the line. He tossed the pole in the pond, folded his chair, picked up the cooler, and walked home.
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