When the River Whispered at Dawn

Three cups of coffee still couldn't shake the chill from my bones as I launched the canoe into the ink-black water. The thermos lid vibrated against the aluminum thwart with each paddle stroke – my personal metronome counting down to first light. Somewhere in the flooded timber, a beaver slapped its tail like a gunshot. My spinning reel hissed softly as I paid out line, the 10lb fluorocarbon disappearing into water so still it could've been liquid mercury.

'Should've brought the heavier jigs,' I muttered, watching my chartreuse swimbait sink slower than morning mist. Three empty casts later, the rising sun set fire to the fog, revealing dancing mayflies above a submerged log. That's when the surface erupted in a silver explosion.

The rod doubled over like a question mark as line screamed off the drag. 'Not the pike I expected!' I laughed aloud, knees bracing against the canoe's rocking. Twenty tense minutes later, I cradled a walleye the size of my forearm, its golden eyes reflecting my stupid grin. The release sent concentric ripples through the now-golden water, carrying my whispered promise to return.

Halfway back to the truck, I realized my thermos lay empty at the bottom of the boat. The river didn't care about coffee – it only deals in perfect, fleeting moments.