It was a glorious Sunday. The last day of spring. We spent it as we've spent many a Sunday morning lately. Fishing. The small lake we've been going to is not much bigger than a pond. It's in a hollow beyond a hay field. It's safe, protected, and often still. An osprey guards it and has a nest high atop a spruce tree along the wooded south shore. We hear birds call, a family of ducks patrols the south, a loon nests along the west edge. Fish jumped. Huge ones and small ones and many in between. We tried fly fishing, I did some regular casting, and we trolled along as we let the canoe take us where the lake's current thought we should be. They taunted us, these trout, with their jumps and twists. It was their home and they called the shots. We were just happy to be out on the lake.