When the River Whispers at Midnight

Moonlight silvered the Mississippi's current as my boots sank into the muddy bank. The hum of cicadas stopped abruptly when I clicked on my headlamp, revealing wisps of fog dancing above the water. I always bring Grandpa's rusted tackle box for night fishing – superstition says its squeaky hinges attract channel cats.

'Should've brought mosquito repellent,' I muttered, slapping my neck. The first cast sent my glow stick jig arcing through the darkness like a tiny green comet. For ninety silent minutes, the river kept its secrets. My thermos of coffee turned lukewarm, tasting of disappointment.

Then the fog thickened. My line quivered – not the usual driftwood tug, but rhythmic pulses that set my pulse racing. 'Steady now,' I whispered, gripping the rod until the cork handle creaked. The fight became a muddy tango: six feet of muscle thrashing in shallows, my braided line singing through reeds. When I finally scooped up the spotted beast, its barbels brushed my wrist like wet velvet.

Dawn found me rinsing slime off my scale, the river now mirror-calm. Somewhere in the mist, a bass jumped with a sound like a slow handclap. I left the tackle box open on the bank – let the next angler borrow some luck.