The story
The bridge drew a thin shadow across the water. I had marked it as a place to pass underneath, which seemed a sensible ambition until a bass settled beneath the darkest plank. The canoe drifted beyond it. I paddled back, quietly enough to hear the rope creak above me.
My brass spoon was the least impressive thing in the tackle tin. A dent made it wander sideways, away from the neat line I wanted. On the third cast that wandering brought it into the shade. The fish turned, flashed once, and carried the afternoon in a different direction.
I brought the bass to a shallow pocket beside the bank and let it swim away. The bridge remained exactly where it had been. My drawing did not: I made the crossing larger, gave the shade its own little circle, and left room for another visit.
A landmark can be a destination even when the route says otherwise.