When Moonlight Brought the Silver Streak

3:17AM. My thermos of bitter coffee trembled in the cup holder as the truck bounced down the limestone road. Somewhere in this maze of flooded cypress trees, the legendary silver pike was said to hunt during the waning moon. I patted the wooden frog carving on my dashboard – a gift from my daughter that somehow became my fishing talisman.

Dew-laden spiderwebs glowed like chandeliers in my headlamp beam. The third cast with my trusty spinnerbait snagged on a submerged log. 'Perfect start,' I muttered, watching a water moccasin slide off the bank. By sunrise, my cooler held nothing but melted ice and regret.

It happened when shadows grew long. A telltale swirl formed behind my stalled lure. Heart drumming, I swapped to an glow jig. The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands. For seventeen breathless minutes, the pike tested every knot in my braided line. When I finally glimpsed its mercury-flash side, time stopped.

The release felt like losing a piece of my soul. But as fading ripples swallowed its silhouette, I noticed my frog charm smiling wider in the afternoon light.