Every summer for a few days, midges
hatch and hover, become food for trout
trapped under ice all winter.
Half the size of a mosquito, they collide against us—
instantly die, leaving smudges, dots, our shirts
Aunt Carol reels in her third rainbow.
Uncle Eric and I have none,
but the day is still young.
The tips of our poles nod up and down
to the rhythm of the spinners. The motor stutters,
and we have yet to troll the far shore.