When the River Whispered at Dawn

The smell of damp pine needles woke me before my coffee did. Mist clung to the banks of the Susquehanna like smoke as I rigged my rod with a topwater frog, its rubber legs still stiff from last night's chill. 'Should've stored it in the tackle box,' I muttered, breath visible in the predawn air.

First casts sent ripples through mirrored pools where smallmouth bass were supposed to be schooling. For forty minutes, only bluegills nibbled at my hopes. Then I saw it - a V-shaped wake cutting across current seams near submerged logs. My thumb hovered over the braided line spool as the lure landed with a soft *plop*.

Three heartbeats. Five. The explosion of water nearly knocked my hat off. The rod bent double, drag screaming like a banshee. 'Easy now,' I coached myself as line burned through my pinched fingers, 'she's heading for the timber...'

When I finally lipped the bronze-backed beauty, dawn broke through the fog in golden shafts. The river didn't give up its secrets easily this morning - it made me earn every shimmering scale.