When Dawn Whispers Keep Casting

The digital clock glowed 3:47AM when my bootlace snapped during final gear checks. Moonlight seeped through the cabin curtains as I rummaged for spare laces, fingertips brushing the lucky spinnerbait permanently clipped to my tackle box – the one that caught nothing last season but felt right to carry.

Fog swallowed the boat ramp whole. My waders squeaked rhythmically against dew-slick planks, each step releasing earthworm-scented moisture from the rotting wood. The third cast landed with a plop that sent concentric rings through a oil-slick calm. 'Should've brought the...' My muttering dissolved when something silver breached downstream.

By sunrise I'd cycled through every jerkbait color imaginable. The thermos' last lukewarm coffee tasted like defeat. 'One more drift,' I told the skeptical blue heron perched on my anchor light, 'then we both go home.'

The line went heavy mid-retrieve, not with a strike but a sickening drag. Snagged. Again. I reefed sideways, ready to snap off – then felt the 'snag' start swimming.

What surfaced wasn't a fish but my own rusted lure box lost last November. Inside, two mummified shiners and a receipt from the marina diner. The heron's raspy laugh followed me all the way back to shore.