Marsh fringe
Wet rye hides an unmatched pool until the ball dives at the bank.
La Crosse lies are rarely clean. A window that still looked fine on a mat will dump from the marsh and knuckle from the sand by the lock.
We do not own a marsh. We own a sill and a memory of how this river's grass actually sits: rye that goes slick after a lunch rain, Myrick shade that never dries the ball, Pettibone sand that grabs a low face.
If your card says you live in the fringe, the fill call gets stricter. A brochure window on a scoring wood is a dump waiting for the next Goose Island evening.