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Saturday, April 20, 2013

Tears of a bridge

Rust marks pour out of the concrete arches near where the old men stand with poles stuck out, the old bridge seeming to cry red tears under their fishing lines.
I stand in that undedicated ten foot by ten foot park somewhat up stream from them, watching the rippled dance of the water beneath the bridge, how the shapes of the tears and the arches changes in the water's mirror, how the faces of the men seemed plotted out there, mere maniquins posted in this impressionist painting as reference points.
In the reflection, the whole world moves, from sky and trees to cars and buses, always beyond their intended destination, traveling a little down stream before lost to those tears.
I can see the glint off the hats of the fishermen where special trophy flies are stuck in anticipation of a special catch, each dedicated to some legend of the deep for which only the fishermen have names. How many times did this one get away, or that? How many lines did that one break in his escape? I've heard their talk of line test and reel power, and have no translation, though in such lazy days as these, no one really seems to mind which fish gets away when the world is constantly oozing under the bridge's tears along with time.

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