The fisherman

Near dusk on Kincaid Lake, after eating shrimp and cornbread, I spent a handful of minutes out on the deck of the restaurant. The wood boards creaked and gave, but when nobody sauntered by it proved stable enough for the tripod. There’s a strange dullness that occurs at this time on the right day. It’s like the surroundings become lazy before everything goes to night. While the other fishermen were packing up this last one cast his line a few more times in front of a gathering crowd.
The fisherman
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