The Fish are of the bite,
The river down,
Nothing happening,
Our casts reduced to rote,
Gnawed by lethargy
And she is frustrated, doesn't say it
But it's in her eyes,
There to read
If you care to.

When it's like this, I tell her,
We have to do something different,
To change our luck,
Take a chance,
Get the molecules moving.

She lifts her chin in doubt,
Half rolls her eyes with skepticism.

I search through my box for a pattern,
Take one out and show it to her,
Dangle it.
Does it have a name?
Connie Lingus, I say.
Another eye roll. Get serious.
I am serious. Connie will change your luck.

She wades over to me, raises an eyebrow.
How do I use it?
It's a passive fly. We cast it out, let it
Swing, lap against the current, ride
The little waves from the wind.
Right, she says.

I help her with her waders, slide them down
Sit her on the bank in the grass,
Give her Connie Lingus for a long time
And she goes quiet and suddenly
Squeals, I have a rise, a rise,
it's...coming...up...there...: Strike!