The Bega is peaceful here,
though it may be wild closer to its source
in the Carpathian Mountains.
The river is lined with walls of stone,
with a row of trees in behind.
A few fishermen sit in foldable chairs,
patiently waiting,
empty creels at their sides.
A barrier stops pedestrians
from crossing a dilapidated foot bridge,
but a student climbs over the barrier anyway
and calmly crosses the Bega,
her hands in her pockets for warmth
and her designer backpack light on her shoulders.
There are many people along the path,
some in business dress heading to work,
students on their way to their studies,
a few people on rented scooters,
and an old man riding a bicycle so slowly
that it takes him ages to pass me while I’m walking.
I worry that his momentum
is too little for him to retain his balance,
but he seems to be steady enough.
A tour boat quietly glides by,
but there are no passengers.
I sit on a bench for a while and watch some fishermen,
a lonely pigeon keeping me company.
One of the fishermen,
a grey-haired man,
has set up two fishing rods on stands
and he is sitting on a park bench behind them
reading a book.
He looks like a man enjoying his retirement.
After twenty minutes or so,
once my pigeon companion has wandered off,
I get up to continue my walk,
not having seen anyone catch a fish.
But just as I step off,
one of the men does indeed reel in a fish,
a small one by the looks of it,
with maybe two or three mouthfuls of flesh on it.
I think he’ll throw it back in the Bega,
but he unhooks it and puts it in his creel.
I pass the old man on the bicycle,
who has stopped for a rest on his own bench.
We smile at each other and I see
he is missing most of his teeth.
Five minutes later,
he inches ever so slowly by me again,
but still steady on his bicycle.
