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...a well-tended park-like sliver of lawn, with old, bony benches at set
intervals. I drive west by the pond,
neck craned to its roily, brown waters, waters ruffled by a biting breeze. I thought to myself that I'd return with rod
in hand to extend the reach and caress a carp, but I never did - I just kept
driving, on and on and on into the unknown ether of a surrealist horizon.
Why the
fuck here, of all places? Fucking
high-rise slate-colored monstrosities, goddamn business conventions overflowing
with infestations of suit-clad automatons, domesticated ducks adding an
apocalyptic clatter to the humanoid blather, a fountain spurting alien water
into a concrete-lined pond with a few nodding, sad trees that can't touch the
shading potential of the skyscrapers.
And yet, here I am, for the carp are, too. I somehow get my lines in the water, but some
bitch tangles 'em and fumbles my quest.
Two of 'em
this time, and, yeah, like the others, their smooth outlines seemingly crafted
by the earth-moving of man. They run
south of the road, but beyond, further south, big cottonwoods and walnut trees,
in collusion with crumpled thickets, cloak a much wilder world. The two ponds - one's big, long, lined with
the omnipresent tules and cattails, and it ain't spring or summer since the
marsh plants are all jaundiced. The
other's smaller, less excluded by waving walls of vegetation, and a bare bank
on the west end allows enough room to run a few rods, and, serendipitously, by
the fish-attracting corners. This time,
I'm on time - I nab three carp quickly, then head to the car, stow my gear, and
leave, driving east on the road, an arctic wind blowing, the sagging winter sun
shunting meekly through naked hardwood limbs.
I can't stop looking at the bigger pond...
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Teejay O'Rear, 2019 - 2024
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