When the River Whispered at Dawn

Three thirty in the morning smells like diesel fumes and anticipation. My waders squeaked louder than the truck door as I loaded the last topwater lure - the one with chipped paint that out-fished all my shiny new baits last season. The James River fog clung to my face like cold spiderwebs during the drive.

First cast sliced through dawn's silver mirror. My trusted spinning reel hummed as monofilament line spiraled into the mist. 'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, watching coffee steam merge with river breath. Smallmouths rolled near the rock ledge, their splashes echoing like dropped silverware in an empty diner.

By sunrise I'd become a statue. Minnows nibbled my shadow. My 'lucky' lure now felt like a plastic joke. That's when the current coughed - a wet, heavy sound that made my neck hairs salute. Two quick strips and the rod bent double. The drag screamed its cicada song as something primal zigzagged between submerged boulders. For seven glorious minutes, the river and I played tug-of-war with eternity.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flanks glowed like molten pennies. I knelt in the shallows, returning it with numb fingers. The fish's tail kick sprayed river water across my notebook, blurring the entry time. Maybe that's how rivers sign their stories.