Tribs
Oliver Round’s wading boots grip granite flat-topped like slate. My black Lab, Sadie, keeps quiet, a great blue heron roosting on the deadfall by the frozen pond. I only dream of my friend’s fishing. The heron crouches while dog and I trudge snow toward the medical building in zero-degree dark. Oliver hunkers, casts.
With a perceptive gaze, my friend studies a plunge pool, water droplets shimmering like snowflake shards. Winter is over now, but I feel chilled. Oliver’s wrist lifts three-weight line, a midge cast back, forth, alighting on calm water like a fleck from the sky. Winter’s wear on the familiar hills is a lasting habitation.
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