John Morgan
		Scouts Spear-fishing on the Chatanika Cross-legged on the bank around a stylish blaze our fathers counted coup— how beautiful from the air those cities lit by bombs, the giddy godless scare of elemental flack, blue sequins on the black. At dusk, we hit the beach and slogged against the current in our rubber wading breeches. Cold, fast, slippery like the rush of inspiration, whitefish burst upon us, gleaming in our headlamps like a spray of meteors. Laughing, screaming, jabbing with our tridents, bloodying the waters—not one caught. They whipped right past and vanished down the river like guerillas with their terror into existential darkness, or the silence of a thought.