Shoulders, rubbing against boulders, trying to not only hold one side of a flat rock but casting frantically to reach a shore thirty feet away. When the obstacle in...
Author - lunker
Memories I wish I had, of giant rivers with small dirt roads next to them. When the fishermen didn’t go past the ten mile marker and the testicle festival lasted...
It’s the small things that keep me going back to the rivers. The way tree-roots look when the water washes back their soil, leaving flimsy tentacles, dangling and naked...
The storm clouds come when they want to, with howling grumbles they balloon. Pouting over valleys and casting shadows on tree nests and cigar smoke. They eat prairie...
The rivers are running away with potatoes and beef jerky, brown. The upper madison laughs with low baritone grumps. Its shores are clean, the fish are waking from a...