When the Reeds Whispered Secrets

Moonlight still clung to the cypress trees when I launched the jon boat into Blackwater Creek. The air smelled of wet moss and anticipation – the kind of morning where every cast feels like unwrapping a mystery. My lucky soft plastic craw bounced against the gunwale, its pumpkinseed claws clicking like a nervous clock.

Dawn revealed the truth: the lily pads I'd mapped last week had been strangled by hydrilla. 'Talk about a hostile takeover,' I muttered, flipping my lure into a coffee-colored pocket. Three hours and seventeen snags later, my shoulders sagged with the weight of empty hopes.

Then the reeds shivered.

Not the usual wind-dance – this was the liquid ripple of something ancient. My next cast landed softer than a moth's breath. The line twitched once... twice... then screamed sideways. The rod arched like a bridge to another dimension, drag singing its metallic hymn. When the 8-pound beast finally surfaced, its bronze scales mirrored the rising sun.

As I released her, a dragonfly alighted on my dripping net. The swamp doesn't give lessons – only tests you're never quite ready for.