From
here he appears as a black spot, one of the shadows that today has
found it necessary to assume solid form, and along with the black jut
of shoreline far to the left, is the only break in the undifferentiated
gray of ice and overcast sky. Here is a man going jiggidy-jig-jig
in a black hole. Depth and the current are of only incidental
interest to him. He's after something big, something down there
that is pure need, something that, had it the wherewithal, would
swallow him whole. Right now nothing is happening. The
fisherman stands and straightens, back to the wind. He stays out
on the ice all day.
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