I will catch a f@%&*#! carp this season.

Probably.  Maybe.  I’ll try at least, harder than I’ve tried seasons past, mainly because the big river’s pumping four hundred thousand cubic feet of water every second, out of its channel, over the levees, into forests and farm fields.

I watched a television float by the other day. 

A dead fawn floating the day before. 

I will catch a f@%&*#! carp this season.

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