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      November 16, 2017Lonni Little RiverMike Catalano

      He could fish before he walked;
      and he was more attuned to the speech
      of Sockeye salmon than any human.
      It surprised no Athabaskan
      that his fish were hooked
      before bait spanked the white rapids.
      When he became one with the water
      without ripple or bubble,
      he petrified himself like a totem
      and speared the most unruly Cohoe.
      But the legend of Lonni Little River,
      long after his death,
      came when he snagged fish
      with one hand. Some say he trained
      his hand hours a day playing a game
      akin to jacks. Some say he plucked a bee
      from a grizzly’s paw, becoming the bear
      with all its instincts.
      I say he kissed the land, the water,
      and all therein, never wasting his spirit,
      long drained by settlers.
      So the river rewarded him
      as one of their own with more
      than Houdini’s hands,
      with a love none dare equal.

      from Issue #11 - Summer 1999

      Mike Catalano

      “I killed my first deer this past winter—going 65 mph in a driving rainstorm. I’m thankful to the Iowan people who helped scrape the remains from my totaled Toyota. I’ve been on a two-year sabbatical writing and researching my family’s biography. I’m happy to be writing history instead of being history, after hitting that deer.”