You can hear the sound of fishing.

And the faint sound of having come all this way for nothing.

IF NOT THE RIVER BY MELISSA MULVIHILL 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 119

You can hear the sound of fishing in the river, the breeze brushing in, the way it mumbles the unfathomable, and the faint sound of having come all this way for nothing, the snap and shush of the fishing rod, as you wade into a lunatic sunset which is in all honesty an ordinary dusk, swinging against the empty day, sweat sliding down the hollow of your back, the shadows so sweet they make your eyes flutter and moan. You can fill your head with sunburn and your continents with lures and weights, and the smooth algae-covered stones, and the fishing poles and hearts, easily folding and floating against the stinging, the loss, the silent, massive patience you bring to bear here, the elegant willows bending as they become shade, slight lacerations healed and the river’s surface reflecting the heat of what’s left undone, stands of oaks with careless purpose, if no…