My route to the river takes me south and then west, and about halfway through the southern leg I noticed that the sky on the southwestern horizon—where my destination lay, generally—had an ominously dark cast to it. I resisted jumping to any conclusions but a few miles later, after I’d turned due west and the flatlands of central Wisconsin unfurled expansively ahead, that oily smear in the distance resolved into a ragged curtain of rain, a curtain torn at irregular intervals by pale slashes of lightning.
The fish of one cast
by Tom Davis - Thursday, Aug 3rd, 2023