When Dawn Bit Back

Three thirty came whispering through my bedroom window, its cold fingers pulling me from dreams of silver flashes. I lay still, listening to my wife's steady breathing sync with the grandfather clock downstairs. Last month's 'spinnerbaits' incident still haunted our garage - better to slip out quietly this time.

Frost crunched under my boots like cereal as I launched the kayak into inky waters. The lake exhaled mist that clung to my beard, tasting of pine and something metallic. My third cast sent concentric ripples through a pool of moonlight, the jerkbait disappearing with a liquid kiss.

'Should've brought the damn hand warmers,' I muttered, watching dawn bleed across the sky. Five missed strikes. Seven snagged lures. The thermos of coffee turned traitor, burning my tongue as morning's first bass boiled the surface twenty yards off.

Then it happened - that electric moment when your line becomes a live wire. The rod arched like a cathedral door, drag singing its metallic hymn. 'Not this time,' I growled through clenched teeth, feeling the headshake travel up braid and bone. When she finally surfaced - a green torpedo dappled with liquid mercury - my victory whoop startled a heron into flight.

Sunlight now gilded the kayak's hull where the bass had left scales shimmering like discarded coins. I paddled home, imagining the story I wouldn't tell my wife... until next Saturday's three-thirty alarm.