Last evening was magic -- cotton was wafting through the air coming to rest in whispy peaks on the water, a transient (who looked strikingly similar to a dustbowl-era hobo) was reflectively lazing on a park bench next to a rusted out batting cage, the nightcrawler was fighting me with its imaginary fists, kayaks and canoes with friends and lovers slipped to and fro beneath the bridge where I stood -- I fought a bit with my line not to hook any of these precious things. I was after a fish, after all.
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