After we tread thick through kudzu you outfit your tackle and scout along shoals in the riverpool and bend. Fishing is your quiet campaign, placid calculations punctured by salvos of strife and floundering maim. Sometimes you present high like timber your catch, and the fruit swings from hook and thread, tense and grim. Once you split your eyes from mine and affixed to the gills, all gored-up and gullet, and your soul fell like a cold stone into the Ocmulgee, and you rippled. Wars and rumors of wars across the surface shoring shame from the dark beneath.