When Dawn Broke the Mirror

Three thirty AM found me knee-deep in mist at Reflection Cove, where the water holds memories like polished glass. My thermos of bitter coffee steamed in rhythm with the fog, each sip burning away the last remnants of sleep. I threaded a spinnerbait onto the fluorocarbon line, the metallic blade catching moonlight that hadn't yet surrendered to dawn.

'Should've brought the waders,' I muttered as icy water seeped through my boot seams. First casts sliced through the cove's mirror, spinnerbait blades kicking up silver spirals. For ninety minutes, only pumpkinseed sunfish assaulted the lure, their dime-sized mouths comically undersized for the offering.

The turnaround came when fog lifted just enough to reveal concentric rings behind a submerged boulder. 'Trout,' I breathed, freezing mid-cast. Three quick strips later, the line went violin-string tight. Rod tip danced as something substantial zigzagged beneath the surface, peeling drag with terrifying efficiency.

When the net finally cradled a 24-inch rainbow trout, its gill plates flared crimson against the gunmetal dawn. I knelt in the shallows to release the fish, numbed fingers fumbling with the hook. Its escape kick sprayed water across my face - nature's perfect wake-up call.

Walking back to the truck, I noticed my coffee had gone cold. Didn't matter. The cove had given me something better - the realization that clarity often comes not when fog lifts, but when we learn to see through it.