When the River Whispers at Midnight

Moonlight rippled across the Mississippi like spilled mercury as my waders sank into the muddy bank. The braided line felt alive between my fingers, still humming with memories of last week's snapped leader. 'Catfish don't care about full moons,' my brother had scoffed that afternoon. But the river's current told a different story as it tugged at my 8-foot rod.

For three silent hours, the only action came from mosquitoes drilling through my bug spray. I was debating whether to switch to chicken liver when the Coleman lantern's glow revealed concentric circles upstream - not the casual swirls of feeding channel cats, but violent bulges that made my nape hairs rise.

The strike came as my sinker touched bottom. The rod arced like a question mark, drag screaming as something primal towed my kayak sideways. 'Not your average flathead,' I grunted, forearm muscles burning as 50-pound test sawed through dark water. When the beast finally surfaced, its barbels glistened like liquid obsidian in the moonlight.

As I released the thrashing giant, dawn's first blush revealed claw marks on the kayak's hull - not mine, not fresh. The river keeps its secrets, but sometimes, when the cicadas pause between songs, you might hear them whispering.