The Whispering Reeds of Lake Okeechobee

3:17 AM. My thermos of bitter coffee trembled in the cup holder as the truck bounced down the gravel road. The swamp's symphony poured through open windows - bullfrogs croaking, something splashing in the lily pads, and always that whispering. Those damn reeds. They'd laughed at me last weekend when I'd skunked out.

My spinning reel clicked rhythmically as I worked the shoreline. The soft plastic craw bumped submerged cypress knees. Nothing. Dawn pinkened the sky. A heron swooped low, its shadow making my heart leap before I cursed under my breath.

Then the reeds stopped whispering.

Water swirled behind a half-sunken log. Three casts. Four. The fifth landed soft as thistledown. The strike nearly wrenched the rod from my hands. Twenty yards of line screamed out before I thumbed the spool. 'Not today,' I growled through clenched teeth, feeling the headshake travel up braid to bone.

When the golden flank broke surface, even the heron seemed to pause. I cradled the warm bronze beauty, gills pulsing against my palm. The reeds resumed their whispers as she vanished in a swirl. Maybe they were applauding.