"Clyde in Fishtown at Bo's House"
At first, mother and father swallow did some squawking, their new ones just now flying. And twenty or thirty spiders contemplated catatonia, in little brown balls before moving on Ah, Solitude at last! Then the conspiracy began; a contest between boat motors and jet motors. One jet came so close, the jet fuel made rainbows in my tea. I asked the pilot if he wouldn't mind changing course a few degrees and how the war was going. He said he'd like to bring his boat out to do some fishing after work. On Thursday two fishermen park downstream about thirty feet. They talk about the "nice fish" that one of them lost, while fishing the straits. I asked them if they'd seen big Butch Hazard, the Skagit's toughest, smelliest, meanest, biggest fish, a former Olympian swimmer, who could bend a crane hook straight just by starin' at it hard. No, he said, and asked me if I'd seen Buddha. They brought the beer I brought some wine. We told "fishing stories."