See the chair in the lake. A foreign instrument unheralded and strange but after time was, like all things, accepted and became part of the sediment underneath the turquoise luminescence. A chalk coloured bed mixed with loose and heavy fragments of bedrock and the chair now belongs to the lake as much as the crumbled deposits and the bones of fish and hardened compressed foliage. Hidden memento of some angler past.
On the shore and present fishermen. Motionless and stark against the skyline. Behind them trees and colonial houses. Behind them tower mountains. Above and below birds of prey, freshwater stalkers, migratory geese continue their hollow cycles. Moss covered rocks gently warm to the touch in the white spring sunlight, bright and brilliant and yet the day was cold. In strange ways such as these nature can contrast, conflict.
Back to the fishermen. Some are old, some young; but all alone. Working in isolation, a solitary day shift. Where are the fish, they each think. They would ask one another, share their concerns but these men have strange traditions. They fear embarrassment and value pride, and as such these men do not ask for help. But regardless they continue to think, where are the fish? A lake such as this produces many fish. Sheepish looks follow anxious remarks lead to wild thoughts of sentient creatures that communicate and hide, driven away from here, from hooks and callous looks, to cooler and earthly depths of which we can never truly reach. Not truly.
Night approaches when the failed fishermen trudge back to the village in silence, darkened light then shadows consume the lake, and they all see the chair. The absurd placement of a once tangible object in this incomprehensible place initially humours them. Cast off and forgotten and considered less than worth. Later a starless night falls and subconscious minds wander to the contents of the lake. With its splintered, washed-away appearance the chair could not be placed anywhere else.
© Nicholas J. Parr, 2016