As if the banks were lined by spiders
Tossing long, shimmering filaments
The river crawls along like prey.
I’ve come, parked with rest,
All our radios on to the local station
For news of ourselves, in between the music
Hard people are soft on. Cut-bait, treble-hook plugs,
Wobbling spoons, plop among the frantic menhaden.
-- From "Bluefish Run, Machias, Maine,'' by Paul Nelson