It is hard to tell where the hip boots end and the man begins, the river water licking at the very lip of rubber as the man wades out into the deeper eddies where only the ducks go.
I have not seen many dressed like him before. Most fishermen here are content to stay on shore or drop their lines from the top of the bridge. But this one seems to want to fight his fish hand to hand, getting as close to his enemy as possible, challenging the cats and carp to drag him down to their level -- and they do, tugging at his line, making him stand back on his heals to get his weight behind his pull, they struggling to escape him, he drawing them in, inch by precious inch, life and death on either end.
From my vantage point on the upper shore, I see the dangers, the bottom littered with communication cables and empty abandoned bottles from beer, each step a potential stumble. On a clear day like this, the glass at the bottom glitters, jewel-like, a distraction from the real prize at the end of the fisherman's line.
I never see the conclusion, just the dance, one partner dressed to the hips in rubber, the other in scales.
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