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I stepped to the edge of the dilapidated dock and displayed near-perfect form in my first cast of the day, - nobody watching - the texas-rigged plastic worm arching up and over (as an airplane might do on a zero-gravity training mission for astronauts) pulling gossamer Andes monofilament behind and across the parabola .. plopping, finally, on the pond surface with a shock that seemed to nearby fish – forgive the anthropomorphism – a whopping 7.4 on the fish-Richter scale, and sending concentric rings of mini-tsunamis out radially to the delight of the water-skeeters, pond-skaters, and Jesus bugs. The motor oil-colored plastic-worm rig sank slowly to the bottom of the scum-coated farm pond as the water surface disturbances began to attenuate in amplitude, quickly seeking the perfect equilibrium from which it had so rudely been displaced.
Sunlight filtered through the murky algae-plankton rich water and returned reflected from the sinking lure as speculars might appear on an old faded monochromatic photograph. A flash of orange-yellow belly color indicated a quick swimming turn by a roe-fat mama bream. Deeper, darker torpedoes were darting, feeding bass and the slow mottled three-footers, which tailed and stopped my fisherman heart, were the grass-eating carp, never ever to take my baits. All this happened just after the radio said Johnny Cash married again, to Juney whats-her-name. Carter.
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