Field Notes - Side Cut
Just off the road lies a manmade sledding hill, its green emptiness resting for spring. Come winter, ruddy faces will race to the top to go just one more time. Brothers tease to go faster and farther and lose their breath with every climb. The oldest throws ice and accidentally cuts an eyebrow. Apologies spilling out as fast as the blood.
From the hill I see the Maumee rush by, a clay-like brown. The current slowly steals mud while the river endlessly rebuilds itself. Giant sycamores with exposed roots lean heavy over the water. A fisherman wades across, taking deep, steady strides. He splashes onto shore and cracks over dead branches to find the trail home. Whistling and empty handed.
I walk farther down the bank to see a curved row of fishermen standing in the river. Looking east with clear skies turns the Maumee a beautiful blue. Twenty men propped like flannel totems. A short man casts a long line. Just one more catch before sunset. One pricks his finger on a hook, and breathes in sharp. A few drops become passengers in the stream. They talk about the week ahead, but mostly listen. To the trees, birds, and water as it all rushes past.
April 11, 2026
