When the River Whispers at Dawn

The pickup truck's headlights cut through mist so thick it felt like chewing cotton candy. I gripped my grandfather's lucky spinning reel tighter as the gravel crunched underfoot. Redhorse suckers should be rolling on these limestone shelves by first light - if the mayfly hatch hadn't lied in yesterday's scouting.

My waders hissed against dewy sedge grass. For twenty silent minutes, I watched the current lick at a submerged log. The third cast sent my hair jig skating past the honey hole. Then it happened - the water bulged like a sleeping giant's shoulder.

'You're snagged again,' I muttered. But the 'snag' suddenly tore upstream, peeling backing with prehistoric fury. Rod bent double, I stumbled over slick stones as smallmouth bass breached in silver terror. When my net finally scooped the prize, its crimson gills pulsed with the river's ancient rhythm.

Sunlight hit the mist as I released the bronze warrior. Somewhere downstream, another splash answered. The river wasn't done talking.