When the River Whispered Back

The predawn chill bit through my flannel shirt as I waded into the shallows. Somewhere in the tea-colored water of the Suwannee, redfish were pushing wakes through the spartina grass. My spinnerbait landed with a soft *plop*, its Colorado blade catching the first peach-colored rays of sunlight.

Three hours. Six snags. Zero strikes. My casting arm ached from repetitive motion when the tannin-stained water suddenly erupted. Line screamed off the baitcaster as a bull redfish turned the river into a battleground. 'Not today, old friend,' I muttered through clenched teeth, feeling the braid burn grooves into my fingertips.

When the fish finally surfaced, its copper scales glowed like molten metal. I cradled the exhausted giant, watching gills flare in rhythmic prayer. As it vanished into the amber depths, a mullet leaped nearby - or was it my redfish slapping a farewell? The river never tells, but sometimes, if you listen carefully, it whispers.