The bullet whooshed by my ear,
the shooter somewhere on the hill above.
We took the warning and motored downriver
but here too we heard gunfire.
And so it continued all afternoon.
Not one cast could we make
to the beautiful silvers in the long slow pools,
for the native people were having sport with us
and nothing we could do to stop it.
Poem by Alan Harawitz Photo by Steve Stracqualursi