When the River Whispered at Dawn
The predawn chill bit through my flannel as I launched the jon boat into the current. Mississippi backwaters smelled of wet earth and decaying cypress knees. My thermos of bitter gas-station coffee trembled in the cup holder - not from cold, but from anticipation of the smallmouth that haunted these oxbows.
First casts with a jighead met only with snapping turtles. By sunrise, my lucky bandana (stained with last season's shad guts) felt like a cruel joke. 'Should've brought the spinning gear,' I muttered, watching a belted kingfisher nab breakfast while I reeled in empty hooks.
The miracle came as mist burned off the water. A swirl near submerged timber made my fluorocarbon line twitch like a live wire. Three heartbeats later, the rod arched violently, drag screaming like a banshee. For six glorious minutes, the smallmouth danced on its tail, gills flaring crimson in the newborn light.
When I finally slipped the 19-incher back into the coffee-colored water, my hands smelled of fish slime and victory. The river chuckled against the hull, its secrets kept... until next time.
