The Whispering Reeds of Lake Okeechobee

Dawn arrived as a thief, stealing the stars with fingers of peach-colored light. My waders crunched through frost-kissed grass, breath hanging in the air like misplaced clouds. The lake lay still - too still. Even the alligators seemed to be sleeping in today.

I chose the spot where the lily pads met the reeds, where last month's storm had uprooted a cypress knee. My grandfather's lucky spinner felt heavy in my palm, its red paint chipped from twenty years of promises. 'Fish don't care about rust,' he'd always said. The first cast sang through the mist.

By noon, my thermos stood empty and the crickets mocked my silence. Three bluegills, barely worth the stringer. The reel handle left angry imprints on my palm as clouds swallowed the sun whole.

Then the reeds whispered. Not the wind - this was the liquid chuckle of water pushed by something substantial. My next cast landed soft as thistledown. The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands.

Twenty-three pounds of armored fury turned the shallows to boiling chocolate. Line screamed like a teakettle as the gar rolled, prehistoric jaws snapping at the sky. When my net finally found purchase, the fish thrashed once... and left me holding a single scale the size of a silver dollar.

Rain began falling as I packed up. Somewhere beneath the tannin-stained water, an ancient warrior wears new jewelry.