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October 2014, vol 10 no 3

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Glenn Coats

Sulfur Season

The park is busy. Children are lined up like spokes around the pond as they wait for the fishing contest to begin. Out in the field, one of the coaches pitches to her players—batting practice. I step into the creek where it lines up with the parking lot and toss a hare's ear wet across the water.

A family with a baby carriage pauses to watch me fish. Two of the boys walk into the creek. "Get back here!" the mother cries. "You'll scare the gentleman's fish." I tell her not to worry; the fish aren't biting and I begin to wade upstream.

I wander where the voices at the park are muted like birds deep in the forest, where I can see the old farmstead and the houses in the fields that surround it. Behind me, the train trestle casts shadows on the water. I aim a cast at a dark pool, watch as the fly settles in the current, sinks slowly, and then tumbles downstream.

evening chill
I see if my fingers