When the Mist Cleared

3:47AM. My thermos clicks shut louder than intended, the sound echoing through the garage. I freeze, listening for creaking floorboards upstairs. The fluorocarbon line in my tackle box glows faintly under moonlit windows - my secret weapon for clear waters.

Dew-soaked reeds whispered against the kayak as I pushed into the marsh. That familiar cocktail of algae and damp earth filled my nostrils. Three casts in, my spinnerbait snagged on something that wasn't wood. The line went slack before I could set the hook.

'Should've brought the damn waders,' I muttered, peeling soggy moss from my lucky jighead. Sunrise bled pink across the water when it happened - a bass exploded on a mayfly six feet from my bow. I grabbed the rig with trembling hands, my soaked jeans forgotten.

The strike came as my lure kissed a submerged cypress knee. Twenty yards of screaming drag, two heart-stopping jumps, and one badly bent net handle later, I cradled olive-green flanks gone gold in morning light. Its gills pulsed once against my palm before vanishing in a swirl of peat-stained water.

Somewhere beyond the fog, a heron laughed.