When the Reeds Whispered Secrets

Three consecutive casts landed in the same patch of duckweed, each sinking into silence. Dawn's pink fingers clawed at the mist while my soft plastic lure sat motionless beneath lily pads. The lake smelled like wet pennies and forgotten promises.

'Should've brought the topwater,' I muttered, thumbing the braid on my spinning reel. My thermos gurgled empty when the reeds twenty yards south shivered. Not the usual wind-dance – this was the liquid flinch I'd waited for since 4 AM.

Sixth cast kissed the disturbed water. Two twitches. Then the line burned sideways, drag singing high C. My rod bowed toward the fleeing shadow, the reel handle imprinting crosshatch marks on my palm. For seven breathless minutes, the world narrowed to singing graphite and thrashing green gold.

The bass measured twenty-three inches, its gills flaring crimson in my trembling grip. After release, I watched it vanish into the reeds – the same ones now rustling with new secrets. My empty thermos rolled in the boat, echoing the lake's mocking laughter. Some lessons only dawn teaches.