When Dawn Whispers to the Reeds

The alarm never stood a chance. By 4:17 AM, my fingers were already tracing the familiar grooves of my spinning reel in the darkness. Moonlight bled through the blinds, painting stripes on my tackle box as I packed extra frog lures – the ones Martha swore looked 'too ridiculous to catch anything.'

Spanish moss hung limp in the predawn stillness when I poled the skiff into the cypress grove. The water here smelled different at first light, carrying a metallic tang that made my sunburnt neck prickle. Three casts with a topwater plug sent concentric rings dancing across the glassy surface. Nothing. Not even the usual bluegill nibbles.

'Should've brought the jigs,' I muttered, watching a gar's armored back break the surface twenty yards east. The third coffee from my thermos tasted like regret. Just as I reached for a soft plastic worm, the submerged lily pads to my west erupted in a silver spray. Not the lazy pop of a turtle – this was the violent thrash of something big chasing breakfast.

My Senko rig hit the water with a whisper. Two twitches. The line went taut so fast it burned my index finger. The rod arched like a willow branch in a hurricane, drag screaming a high-C aria. For six glorious minutes, the world narrowed to singing braid and the musk of disturbed marsh mud.

When I finally cradled the 8-pound bass, its gills flared crimson against the first gold streaks of sunrise. The fish kicked free before I could measure it, leaving me soaked and grinning like a fool. Somewhere in the mist, I heard Martha laughing.