When the River Whispered at Dawn

Three cups of coffee couldn't shake the chill from my bones as I launched the kayak into the mist-shrouded Potomac. The spinnerbait in my tackle box clinked like wind chimes with each paddle stroke – a sound that usually meant promise, but today felt like mockery.

By sunrise, I'd already snagged my favorite lure on submerged timber. 'Should've used braided line,' I muttered, watching the spectral shapes of smallmouth bass swirl near the riprap. My fingers found the familiar grooves of my backup rod, its cork grip worn smooth from twenty years of these quiet wars.

The revelation came with the tide change. A telltale bulge formed behind my topwater frog near the lily pads. Two heartbeats later, the surface exploded in a shower of silver. The drag screamed its metallic hymn as the smallmouth ran for deep current, my graphite rod arching like a willow in a storm.

When I finally slipped the 19-inch beauty back into the tea-colored water, her tail slap left river scent on my cheeks – nature's baptism for those patient enough to listen.