The witching hour is just before the sun goes down. This is the time the fish will bite. This is the time of day when you can tie a hook to a string and your finger is your fishing pole. The fish do not care if your finger is what you fish with. That one time you looked into the eyes of the Queen of Fate. Not dark. Not light. But a walking through the litany of skulls. A parallel universe of scratching at the secret whispers of the fields again. They called you son and you were fond of it. In the middle of Lake Lure, there is an island and it is populated by tigers who will watch you swim closer and closer to the island in complete silence except for breathing which is almost a sigh. Stone walls and sheep. I swim naked at night so the tigers don't see me. They might think I am a trespassing hyena but the hyenas are from another island.
