break. He cannot forget yet what the solid stars skeleton.
One memory which might prove significant: His father flinging (Could it be from the very spot where, tired of casting for the center, he dropped his line over the guardrail and caught, instantly, his catch-of-the-day sunfish, such a matter-of-fact success he tried for hours to keep it alive in his tub?) himself to swim once the T of the two rivers, near at the moment, their normal limits. Of course, he'd been drinking. The singing head floated above the current, as mother and son quivered from the bridge. Protocol. They need not have. The courtesy the brown gods showed one another at their meeting extended to their charges. Most rivers are old fathers. Rarely do they seek new definitions. Only rarely do we need the wishes we are granted.
Had he been quicker, smarter, bigger, had he been paying more attention, he might be dead. Didn't even see it until it was past him, fording the current he'd been too afraid to test himself against. Someone saw it from the other side. A woman, picnicking, warned him too late. He was treading water off the giant brown and shining dinner rolls that masqueraded as warm rocks near the bank. It was green, in its element, and well on its way to the other side. Snake, she shouted. Look out. He never even looked it in the eye.
The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho