When the Mist Held Its Breath

The pre-dawn chill bit through my flannel shirt as I launched the kayak into glassy water. Somewhere in the pea soup fog, smallmouth bass were chasing crankbaits along the limestone shelf – or so the old-timer at the bait shop had sworn. My thermos of coffee steamed in the stillness, its bitter scent mixing with decaying lily pads.

'Just three casts,' I promised myself when the first hour yielded only snapped lines. My fingers found the chipped rabbit's foot in my pocket – a wedding gift from Lucy that somehow became my fishing charm. The fourth cast landed with a slap. The fluorocarbon line hummed as something massive surged toward submerged logs. My drag screamed like a barn owl.

'You're not snagging my last lure,' I growled, thumbing the spool. The rod bent double. For seven breathless minutes, the fog clung to the water's surface like an audience holding its breath. When the bronze-backed brute finally surfaced, its tail sent droplets glittering through morning sunlight that hadn't existed moments before.

The mist dissolved as I paddled shoreward, the fish's parting splash echoing where my watch alarm should've been ringing. Somewhere in the city, my desk phone was blinking with missed calls. Somewhere on the lake, a rabbit's foot sank slowly toward the limestone shelf.