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START: Seven. I was fishing after rain. It was cold. Still. The water gin-clear. My uncle was further up, fishing a wet fly beyond the crest. I was alone. Cold, bored, thinking about sausages, when out of nowhere the air thickened and yellowed, the wind changed and whipped up the surface like a million pinpricks, then stillness.

[... …]

END: And we came back here, and had sausages. And the next day I went back to the river, and I took off my clothes and I dived in the water, and I looked for the fish, and I couldn’t find it, but when I surfaced, I was holding something. Something else.

Jez Butterworth, The River, NHB Modern Plays, electronic edition, 2012, pp.40-42