I suspect he was one of the few fishing the Kankakee.

I don't know whether this is a prose poem, overwriting or the ramblings of somebody who stood out in the rain too long; but here goes: Minas on fishing yesterday in the heavy rain.

As the murky waters inched higher along sodden shores, debris passed swiftly, dislodged from temporary abodes. Under dull, leaden skies springlike air gave some respite to the frigid waters swirling around my legs. The raw, wetness from above upon my hands however , gave lie to any pleasant promises from man made measurements of nature. Where the rivulets roiled downward, the creeks crashed in and at the interface of dirty, debris filled intermittent flows with the sullen and swollen river the fish feasted. Through the crescendo of rain upon the surface and the rusty leaves running rampant the rattlebait worked it's rhythmic magic. Broad, bulky bronze , long slender gold and peaceful, solitary serenity were the reward for venturing forth on such a day as this.