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web | The Sun Is but a Morning Star
On the Columbia River near Vantage,
Washington, we fished for whitefish
in the winter months; my dad, Swede
Mr. Lindgren - and me. They used belly-reels,
pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown
flies baited with maggots.
They wanted distance and went clear out there
to the edge of the riffle.
I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole.
My dad kept his maggots alive and warm
under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink.
I liked him better than my dad for a time.
He lets me steer his car, teased me
about my name "Junior," and said
one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember
all this, and fish with my own son.
But my dad was right. I mean
he kept silent and looked into the river,
worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.
© Raymond Carver
© E-publisher LiterNet, 10.10.2010
The Sun Is but a Morning Star. Anthology of American Literature. Edited by Albena
Bakratcheva. Varna: LiterNet, 2008-2010