Marilyn Borell


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Marilyn's Blogs

Last Lure
Waiting to take the ferry across Alaskaís Russian River to the more fruitful south bank, I poke around the breast pockets of a fishing vest I havenít worn in years and come up with a fly, one tied by my father at my kitchen table in the late 1990ís. I know this, because Dad always pried the business end of the hook a little more open when he finished. The hook is dressed in hunter orange hair, wrapped tight on the shaft with black thread, secured with strokes of my clear nail polish.
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