canned

Four perfect, round, stainless, large silver cylinders

invite wonder

Hollow cans offer a peek through, if you find the proper angle. Randomly scattered against a rapidly oxidizing fence, snaking the perimeter of the lake, they grab my eye, here and there.

I notice one can.

Then, meters later, another.

And then, a few paces forward, yet another.

I am left to consider

What

and

Why

On the fourth can we pass I look closer, and note the silky, near-transparent line snaking from can lip into murky waters, and realize

they’re fishing

It’s then that I see the two fishermen.

One slides off his hat and tweaks his head. He’s spotted a sudden movement back down the walk. He barks orders at the other, who sprints toward one of the cans. He arrives quickly, takes his net down from an adjacent tree, and reaches into the water.

A couple small splashes, then a couple bigger ones. He massages, winds, and eventually pulls out a second green net that is at once a maelstrom of violent flipping and scaly goodness.

It’s a good haul

Of four perfect, round, stainless, large silver cylinders