They waded chest deep into the confluence of the bayou and the gulf. Tossed the head of the rod back and forth with such flickering quickness you could only imagine the glimmer of their hooked bait as the sun danced across it. And then, the tracks led us back out of there. On the highway back to the city, Friday night became an epigram of the last hundred years. Hahnville and Rummel met up in the stadium and the lights spread out across the coming night, covering the endless lot of Fords, Chevies and Dodges spilling into the grass behind the game field, all of ’em pickups, all of ’em with gun racks. The thunder traded off with the rumbling stands cheering an outcome indivisible by the future.
by Hank Cherry