When the Mississippi Whispered at Midnight

Moonlight silvered the river's skin as my waders sank into the cool mud. Somewhere beyond the willow curtain, a bullfrog croaked its disapproval of my soft plastic worms rig. 'City boy's bait,' it seemed to say. I smiled, remembering how Grandpa swore by night fishing for Mississippi's bronze-backed warriors.

Three silent hours dissolved into the current. My thermos of coffee turned traitor, its gurgle through the plastic lid loud enough to scare catfish. Then - a twitch. Not the usual pecking of channel cats, but that telltale tremor from something old and wise. My braided line hissed through fingers gone numb, the rod arching like a willow branch in flood season. 'Easy now,' I whispered to the darkness, tasting river mist and adrenaline.

When the moon ducked behind clouds, she surfaced - a mirror carp older than my best lies, scales glinting like Confederate coins. Our staredown lasted three heartbeats before she vanished, leaving only moon-rings dancing where the river swallowed its secret.