When the River Whispered at Dawn

The truck's digital clock blinked 4:47 AM as gravel crunched beneath my tires. Mist clung to the Wisconsin River like cobwebs, making my headlights look like two fading lighthouse beams. I grabbed my rod case with numb fingers – the kind of cold that makes monofilament feel like fluorocarbon line against your skin.

『Should've worn thicker gloves,』 I muttered, breath fogging in the predawn stillness. The river answered with a barred owl's call. Wading through knee-deep water, I almost missed the subtle dimple near the submerged log – the telltale breakfast rise of smallmouth bass.

Three casts with a topwater frog brought nothing but swirls of rejection. Switching to a ned rig, I felt that electric tap-tap within seconds. The rod arched violently as bronze lightning zigzagged through the current.『Is this the same fish that ignored me last week?』 The thought vanished when her tail breached, spraying diamond droplets into the rising sun.

At the release, my trembling hands hovered over water still vibrating with her escape. The river murmured something about second chances as morning fog dissolved into liquid gold.