DEAD FISH IN THE PONDWORD GOT around the tiny neighborhood fast: Mang Elo had finally allowed anglers to enter his fishponds during the day before small
salambaw-like nets were set up in the night to haul in the milkfish that now and then jumped out of the water, flashing bright in the sun. And the sun was indeed bright even in the early
morning. There would be no storm, everybody wanted to toss a hook and line in the ponds that stretched hectares upon hectares beyond the trees that looked dark green and stunted far, far away till
you saw the belfry of the church of San Bartolome to your blurred right.
“The sun is good! is good!” The old men and small children cried. Of course they could fish (“Kabise, five centavos for the taga and quick!” and the only
Chinese vendor in the vicinity
