The day of the sun — the only day fish can swim through the hydroelectric arches, and if timed perfectly, and executed with cunning and finesse, can leave the fish transformed. Pitched up the food chain. Scales replaced by hide, and gills for lowing lungs.
Peak fishing season though, as the schools, rustled, shimmer back from coral pastures, crossing the bays. One attempts the rite, quick as light and graceful fins. Yolks the falls, bells all jangling and ripples as it becomes reborn, a bovine wonder. Bullseye.
These men of lures in hip-waders throw lines, now lassoing into their wakes, tangling with horns and snarling their rods. They reel them in and pack their tackle and hitch their catch and creels. One holy head bellows a first and clumsy moo and scares the school back past the breaker.
One fisherman turns to the other fisherman, “I guess we’re cowboys now.”
Dreams is an ongoing project where we ask our favorite artists to create a piece of music inspired by a handmade collage.