When Catfish Dance in Moonlight

3:17AM. The pickup's dashboard glowed like a pirate's treasure map as I navigated backroads slick with dew. Somewhere in the Mississippi fog ahead lay Old River's forgotten oxbow, where soft plastics become catfish confetti. My thermos gurgled with coffee gone cold three refills ago.

Mud sucked at my waders as I waded into the inky water. The moon chose that moment to dip behind clouds, turning the world into a photographer's darkroom. First cast landed with the elegance of a falling anvil. The spinning reel hissed like a cornered possum as line peeled off into the abyss.

Dawn arrived in sneaker waves - first a single heron's croak, then the symphony of waking frogs. My arms burned from casting that damn 3/8 oz jighead. Just as I debated sacrificing my last Slim Jim to the fishing gods, the line twitched like a nervous bride's eyelash.

The fight lasted thirteen heartbeats or thirteen years - time dissolves when a 40-pound blue cat decides your rod is a toothpick. Its tail slapped the surface, spray catching moonlight like scattered diamonds. We stared at each other, predator and prey, before the river reclaimed its dancer.

Walking back, I noticed my shadow had grown two inches. Or maybe the sun finally rose high enough to see what the night hid.