On summer evenings the workingmen gather to fish
in the swift water below the dam. They sit on the
rocks and are silent for the most part, looking into
the water and casting again and again. Lines tangle,
tackle is lost and a fisherman curses to himself. No
one notices. It is simply a part of the routine, like the
backs of their wives in bed at night or short words
to the children in the morning. Only water holds
their attention, crashing through the spillway with
enough force behind it to break a man's back. And
the undertow could take you easily as a bit of
fishline and toss you ashore miles downstream.
The men shout to be heard above the roar of the
water. ANY LUCK? NO I JUST GOT HERE
Louis Jenkins
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