Algae Bloom by Noelle O’Reilly

I row and my husband measures the depth of the pond with a length
of string. The scum at the surface has just frozen, so the rowboat
cuts like an icebreaker. The string is weighted down by a door hinge.
Four feet, six feet, four feet. Across the pond, a lady duck and two
man ducks are watching us from a muddy inlet. Eventually, they fly
off to who knows where. I could have shot them, says my husband,
and we could have eaten them for dinner. I shake my head—just
look at you. But then he pulls the string out of the water and there is
a door attached to the hinge, a really nice one, with the head of a lion
carved into the wood. The rowboat is small and tippy, but I don’t
protest when my husband stands up and holds his new door aloft. I
keep rowing, the oars churning whirlpools in the green water. When
the ducks return, they fly right into my husband’s door. When we
eat them, we don’t even have to watch our teeth for lead.

Noelle O’Reilly has degrees from Smith College and The Ohio State University. Her work has appeared in Conjunctions, Sonora Review, Pacifica Literary Review and elsewhere. She lives in Washington state.