Back Side of the Lake
The grass is tall like corn, but it is thin like grass stems taller than teenaged us. Yellowy, beigey, sagey-greenish wave after wave of grass stems all around and over us, and us with our fishing gear tramping around, watch the tip of your pole where you’re going, trying to see through all this corn-like grass and going in circles, I think. Scuba divers in murky water can see this far ahead. Where are we? Blue-golden sky is above beyond the lanky grass frills way up there.
“I didn’t know grass grew this big.”
Now with the cows. The mooing is all around us, mooing, snorting, mooing from any direction, every direction. One from there. One from there. One’s over there now. A heavyness behind those moos, and we’re suburb kids sowing our oats, and we don’t know: How close are they? and how many cows? and do cows charge?
”Wait,” says my brother. “Are they cows or are they BULLS?”
”How the hell should I know?”
”Do cows charge?”
“I don‘t know,” says Chad. That’s who got us into this. Back side of the lake. Come on. Let’s do it.
”Duuude,” my brother contemplates.
“Wish I could fly,” says I.
“Where‘s the lake?”
”I don’t know.”
”Dude, shut up. I think I hear something.”
”Yeah, no shit. It’s cows.”
”Or else bulls.”
There’s quiet and then there’s cows again (or bulls). Sure sounds like they’re surrounding us, the mooing-honking-mooing-snorting-mooing all around us getting closer, now at times from new directions, weird directions—did they move or is that a new one?—hidden, hiding cows all stalking us from this ocean of oversized grass.
”Where are they?”
”I don’t know.”
”Can’t see anything.”
”Where’s the water? Where’s the friggin’ LAKE??”
”Sure wish I could fly.”
So much for this way. Don’t think we’ll ever get out of here. No idea where’s the car, we just wanted to see some fish that had never seen a lure before, and NOW look at it, it’s all just grass and cows we walked into. Or else they could be bulls. And I sure wish I could fly. This is not a good way to die.