When Dawn Whispers to Bass

4:17AM. The mist clung to my waders like cold fingers as I fumbled with my spinning reel. Lake Fork's eastern shoreline lay veiled in predawn blue, the water so still it mirrored Orion's belt. I sipped bitter gas station coffee, remembering how last week's trophy bass snapped my 8lb fluorocarbon like dental floss.

First cast sailed beyond the submerged timber line. My chartreuse spinnerbait helicoptered down, met only by watery silence. Three hours passed in rhythmic motions - cast, retrieve, repeat. A great blue heron laughed its scraping laugh when my soft plastic worm got stuck in cypress knees for the fifth time.

The sun broke horizon when it happened - a liquid 'pop' near the lily pads. Heart drumming, I sent my weightless Senko arcing toward the sound. Line twitched once... twice... then screamed sideways. Drag protested as something primal surged toward deep water. Rod tip met surface, bamboo bending as I muttered 'Not again, not today.'

When the greenish-gold flank finally broke through silver waves, my shout scared off a whole squadron of coots. The scale's needle quivered at 7lb 2oz - my personal best. Its release sent concentric ripples across the awakening lake, each circle whispering secrets only dawn anglers understand.