SWALLOWS. Small, elegant birds, that fly with the flourish and command of a figure skater; swallows chase insects low across the water.

A wingtip tracing the water surface explodes into the jaws of a large pike, and one bird is gone. The surface purls.

I stood, transfixed, on a float, vacantly wondering how such a high speed intercept between lake and sky could be possible. Then, it happened again!

Though I had fishing gear in hand, I did not cast to the pike. The swallows went on with the show, but there were no more strikes.

Leaving, I’m embarrassed by my noisy flying machine in the presence of the swallows.

Still, a shiny little floatplane, skimming between water and air on a brassy solstice evening, is also a thing of grace. One can only be grateful to be a part of that. Grateful, and watchful, too...there are always bigger fish down there.