When the River Started Singing

Three AM coffee tasted like burnt promises as I backed the boat into Suwannee's inky waters. The January air bit through my flannel shirt, but the smallmouth bass should be chasing shad in these cold currents. My fingers lingered on the 软饵 box - those green pumpkin craws never failed me last winter.

Fog clung to the river like cobwebs. By the fifth cast, my boots were soaked from slipping on lichen-covered rocks. 'Should've worn the damn cleats,' I muttered, watching a bald eagle snatch breakfast from the shallows. The rhythmic swish of line through guides blended with woodpecker tattoos echoing off cypress knees.

Sunrise brought disappointment. Three missed strikes left me re-tying leaders with numb fingers. That's when the water started humming. Not metaphorically - actual vibrations traveled up my waders. A family of river otters surfaced downstream, their chirps mixing with the growing rumble.

I almost didn't notice the line twitch. The strike came as an otter pup dove near my lure. The 纺车轮 screamed like a banshee as the smallmouth rocketed into current. For six glorious minutes, the world narrowed to bending rod and throbbing line. When I finally lipped the 20-inch bronze beauty, its gills pulsed against my palm like a forbidden heartbeat.

Releasing her into tea-colored water, I realized the river's song had changed. Maybe it was never silent - just waiting for me to stop talking.