The Whispering Reeds and the Midnight Striker

Moonlight silvered the marsh grass as my waders whispered through knee-deep water. Somewhere in the labyrinth of tidal creeks, redfish were tailing under cover of darkness - I could smell their briny playground in the cool September air. My spinnerbait trembled in anticipation, its Colorado blade catching starlight.

For forty-three minutes, the only action came from mosquitoes drilling through my bug jacket. Then the creek answered with a sound like champagne uncorking - a feeding frenzy erupting behind a sandbar. My cast landed short. The second fell too far left. On the third attempt, braided line hissed through rod guides as something primal surged toward open water.

The fight became a muddy tango. My headlamp revealed not the expected redfish, but a prehistoric bowfin thrashing in the shallows. Its gills rattled like dried beans in a can as I worked the pliers. 'Since when do gar hit spinnerbaits?' I chuckled to the night, watching my unexpected dance partner vanish in a swirl of disturbed silt.

Dawn found me rinsing fluorocarbon line in tea-colored water, smiling at the memory of moonlight on angry scales. The marsh keeps its secrets well, but sometimes lets them slip through clenched jaws.