When the River Whispered at Dusk

Sixteen minutes past magic hour. The James River was breathing out mist that clung to my waders like ghostly fingers. I'd chosen a spinnerbait with purple skirts – my wife's favorite color, though she'd never admit it made better bait. 'Last cast,' I lied to the bullfrog croaking on the bank, same as I'd done twelve casts ago.

The water turned cold three feet from shore. Not the chill of nightfall, but the electric snap predators leave in their wake. My line twitched before I felt the strike – smallmouth bass always bite like they're punching a timeclock. For eight glorious seconds, the rod bent into a crescent moon and my fluorocarbon line sang opera.

Then nothing. Not even the bullfrog's taunt. I stared at the slack line until thunder rumbled upstream. First raindrops hit the river as I reeled in half a crawdad shell. The storm came laughing, washing away footprints and fish stories alike. Sometimes the river doesn't want witnesses.