FISHING IN THE MILL TOWN |
| Can't concentrate on the job at hand when eyes glide downstream, follow the route of timber. Paper plant smoke rises through the pines. If not for that, there'd be no town. It's a wonder there's a fish left in these busy waters. But three boys cast their lines. And toes dangle in the water, careful they don't get wedged between the timber and the shore. Skinny bodies, high voices, kin to gray-haired man with stooped shoulders, old woman pegging clothes to line. Fishing where they can, when they can. The trout may not bite but the mill job is always waiting. But that's a hook for another time. — John Grey |
Copyright by John Grey
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