Doc’s Dock

The old men sit at the bar or in chairs
on the deck, overlooking the channel.
The waters of the Cannon River flow
through, and out into the lake. One man
chews a cigar and another spits tobacco
juice into a cup, staining the white
hairs of his beard yellow. “I used to
run my boat on this lake,” says the cigar
chewer, nodding toward the water. “Used
to fish.” His friend grunts and nods
as he nurses whiskey in a cracked glass.
“Used to,” he says again. A Great Blue
Heron, wading along the shore croaks
like a stepped on frog as a sudden
breeze ruffles the weeds and causes
it to spread its great wings and
lift off for quiter places. “It’s
gonna be a fine day,” another man says
as he steps out onto the deck, the screen
door slamming behind him. “Fine
and warm.” His overalls smell like cow
barn and as he walks toward his truck
he turns and tips the corner of his cap.
“Gentleman,” he says.

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One thought on “Doc’s Dock

  1. Another fine vignette, Butch.

    I knew that place very well in 1980 or so, when it was the Sundown Inn. — Bill

    Like

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