When Moonlight Revealed the Ripples

3:17AM glowed on my dive watch when the pickup's headlights cut through the misty backroad. The dashboard thermometer read 52°F - perfect for smallmouths. I touched the glow-in-the-dark jig in my breast pocket, its familiar ridges pressing into my fingertips like braille only I could read.

The river whispered before I saw it. My waders hissed through frost-kissed sedge grass until the current's cold breath hit my face. First cast landed too close to the bank. 'Should've used the...' The thought died as something silver shattered the moonlit surface. My fluorocarbon line sang taut, cutting a phosphorescent arc through the fog.

Three heartbeats later, the smallmouth breached - a liquid shadow thrashing against star-reflecting scales. Its gills flared as I cradled the 18-inch warrior, river water dripping onto trembling knees. The release sent concentric ripples chasing the retreating moon.

At dawn's first blush, my thermos of coffee tasted like victory and humility brewed together. The river always claims the last laugh, but tonight, it let me chuckle along.