When Dawn Broke the Bass Code

The alarm never stood a chance. By 3:47AM, my fingers were already tracing the familiar dents in my lucky spinnerbait – the one that survived last season's pike ambush. Lake Monona's eastern shore whispered promises through my truck's half-open window, carrying the scent of damp moss and anticipation.

『Should've brought the heavier line,』 I muttered, watching moonlight fracture on the ripples. My waders hissed as I entered the shallows. For thirty silent minutes, only the rhythmic plop of senko worms broke the darkness. Then the water blinked.

A concentric ring appeared ten feet from my boots. Then another. My pulse outran the cricket chorus. The sixth cast landed soft as thistledown. The line twitched once... twice... before screaming into the abyss. The rod bent like a question mark, drag singing its metallic hymn. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its golden flanks glowed brighter than the emerging sunrise.

Back at the truck, I found my thermos cap floating in a puddle of spilled coffee. The bass's parting splash had left my notebook pages warped – nature's watermark on today's lesson about perfect timing.