An instructive story about how a young fisherman grew up and became a poacher. It is especially depressing that there is no fiction in it, one truth.
Quiet summer morning. The sun is shining kindly. 5-year-old boy is going fishing. He asks his grandmother to knead a little dough for him, and while she is doing this, she hurriedly searches for worms, turning over old boards, tiles – various rubbish scattered around the yard in damp places. And finally, a dozen worms crawl in a tin can, and a small hand squeezes a lump of dough – you can go to the river.
Stuffing pockets with green apples and cherry plum, the boy takes his unpretentious fishing arsenal – a reed fishing rod, a 3-liter can for fish – and barefoot mince on cool morning dust. Not far to the river. Only five minutes.
Here it is already in place. The river meets it with the native smell of silt, sonorous trills of reeds, croaking of frogs, bursts of fattening fish. The boy’s heart begins to beat faster. With trepidation, he unwinds the fishing rod, puts a red worm on the hook and makes the first cast into a small window of clean water, surrounded on all sides by a dense wall of algae. Continue reading