Where the river abandons herself to the creek and the mudbank is cratered with crabclaws waits the old man.
He doesn't know his years but his ears are a sonic gift catching the tonal variations of tides seemingly for eons evolving with the mangrove map into a flawless tracker of how far the moon would recline for ***** to be holed out and what shoreline the water would touch before the shrimps starlight driven make a beeline for the net.
I encountered him once in the absurdity of a time when I was high and he lowly crouching was making art by the creek.