The hill cut the sky in half, a black shrug between the dappled water and slabs of slate grey cloud. Six pylons prickled the horizon, three groups of three, arm in arm.
Even here, the weight wouldn’t lift. The sky pressed down, hills pushed at his back, pylons watchful.
He tied another fishing fly, plucked the silken fluff from the shaft of a quail feather, twisted the cord, trapping more feathers. Once the fly was done, he added it to the others lined up on the pontoon.
They stirred in the wind, a twitch like the flex of dying muscles. He scuffed the bundles of feather and cord into the water.
“It’s time.” The aide was at his side, signalling towards the car. “They need your signature to go ahead.”
“Yes.” He watched the feathers float away.