Narratives

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Bend in the River

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Seated on a log beside my favorite stream, cushioned by moss that has crept across the fallen tree’s bark, I wonder why it is that I tend to gravitate toward these little ribbons of water. Although the sun is bright on this afternoon during the third week of September, it’s...
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The Fighter

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The previous evening, the old man had sat on a bench watching a little black bear, most likely born the winter before last, wade into the pond beside his cabin, the young bear seeking to escape the humidity and rising temperature. With water rippling around its neck, the bruin...
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A Nod to Vince

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There was grass to mow and weeds to pick, tools to be polished and a shed that needed to be cleaned. Then there was a tractor with that flat tire and the moss growing on the siding along the north wall of our house—chores that kept me close to...
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As a young man, I read Hemingway and Steinbeck, Harrison, and McGuane. Along the way, the fly-fishing raconteur, Richard Brautigan, brought tears to my eyes while the rabid environmentalist, Edward Abbey, had me raising my fists in outrage. I took to heart the words of Gary Snyder, the acclaimed...
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