Bill enjoyed fishing. Each evening, as the sun settled into a blanket of playful pink clouds, Bill climbed onto his rickety, wobbly, elderly boat and rowed himself out to where the sun’s enormous glow completely engulfed his wrinkled face. He would finger through a geriatric tackle box and pluck out a small aluminum can in which a colony of only the fattest earthworms the soil of Maine could present wriggled ferociously. His weathered lips spread into a smile as he watched the sky churn. He would adjust his hat so that the magnificent blaze of sunset was prevented from bludgeoning his eyes and after veering back, thumb pressed against the string, he would toss a scintillating white scratch into the horizon and glare at it floating down to an elaborate ripple stretched across the water. Bill would toss his boots onto the side of his stained rowboat and poke his fishing pole into his cup holder. He reached two wobbling fingers into his front pocket and pulled out one of the fattest blunts I have ever laid eyes on. He would tout the blunt between his moistened lips, burning it against the world, searing the atmosphere. A stream of smoke would invade the peaceful reflection lying in the lake, and Bill would sit and muse with his sleepy existence.
Bill should not have been punished for this.
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