When the River Whispers Secrets

Fog clung to the Trinity River like cigarette smoke in a dive bar when I launched my kayak. The hard bait in my tackle box clattered with each paddle stroke – a nervous symphony. By sunrise, I'd already snapped off two lures on submerged timber, my spinning reel whining like a teased pup.

'Should've brought the waders,' I muttered, watching a gar roll its prehistoric eyes at my topwater frog. The coffee in my thermos turned acidic as the morning wore on without so much as a nibble.

Then the water blinked.

Behind a skeletal cypress stump, the surface dimpled like old celluloid film. Three quick casts landed my crankbait in the sweet spot. The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands. For twenty electric seconds, the world narrowed to singing line and the musk of crushed hydrilla.

The redfish's copper flanks glowed through the murk as I lipped it – solid as a fire hydrant, speckled like a starry night. Its gills pulsed against my palm before the kick that left me grinning through a faceful of river water.

Now the fog's lifting. My rod tip traces circles in the current, waiting for the river's next confession.