Murmurs in the Mist

Three a.m. coffee burned my tongue as headlights cut through the Mississippi fog. My waders sighed with each step toward the bank, the river's breath cool against my neck. I'd chosen this bend below the old railroad bridge—a spot where smallmouth bass haunted the rocky drop-offs. My fingers automatically checked the fluorocarbon line for nicks; last week's monster had frayed it clean through.

First casts sliced the silver water. *Plink... plink...* Nothing. Not even a nibble. An hour crawled by, the only excitement being a heron's sudden dive. 'Should've brought the nightcrawlers,' I muttered, eyeing my stubbornly untouched spinnerbait. The current whispered secrets I couldn't decipher.

Then—a ripple. Not from the surface, but deep below. Something heavy brushed against sunken timber. My next cast landed feather-light upstream. As the lure drifted... *thump*. The rod arched violently, screech of the drag echoing off limestone cliffs. 'Easy now, sweetheart,' I breathed, knees locking against the rocking current. Ten minutes later, bronze scales flashed in my net—a smallmouth thick as my forearm, gills flaring like crimson banners.

I watched her vanish into the tea-colored depths, my trembling hands smelling of river and victory. Sometimes, the fish don't bite until you learn to listen.