14 02 2008

On perfect Maine mornings, my dad and I would awaken even before the sun and head to the lake. As we rowed into the uneasy pre-dawn dark, Alamoosook felt leaden beneath our oars. We rarely said a word, listening instead to loon and owl, to oars clunking against the gunnel.

One morning, as the sun coppered the lake, we turned wearily back to shore, empty-handed, having forgotten freshwater tackle. As we rowed, huge fish surfaced to the sunrise: trout and bass. Fishhawks plummeted repeatedly to pull with silver talons the shimmery flanks of plump fish from the molten waters.




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