Julian Lass

If only you were an arctic angler, leaning into the wind on your push-sledge, skating swiftly over foot-thick ice covering the unseen, quivering sea. Every so often you bore a hole into the frozen water in order to find fish with your small rod and line, ever alert, until you encounter resistance, the ice always glittering bright, you bore your way jerkily through the innermost layers, until you succeed in breaking through, and you barely see the fish leaping out of the hole, and then you sledge further, the ice a blur beneath the runners, until you hurl away your drill, for there would be no drill, and you drop your rod and line, for there would be no more fishing, and you barely see the ice before you as a vast, blinding, white ocean, but now without the runners or the sledge.