Long hot days on Southern tailwaters ooze sulphurs. Our little, yellow, different, Nuprin-like harbingers of summer make life worth living in the middle of July when just leaving the house devolves into a sweaty pile of B.O. and malaise. Variety is forsaken for consistency and the total sheer absurdity of numbers. The days when you have to put down the rod and just watch the hatch happen are simultaneously the most futile and the most cherished. Once you have experienced a true blanket of little yellow bugs, winter, spring, and fall are just passing time till the next summer when, like clockwork, the poetry of sulphurs starts all over again.
I love trout.
Trout love sulphurs.
They taste like rainbows drizzled with unicorn spunk.
Little yellar bugs are crawling into every orifice.
I might need a proctological entomologist.
Every summer you French kiss my soul with veiny wings and beady red eyes.
Dorothea, or Invaria it matters not.
Unlike male genitalia, size is secondary to presentation.
