When the River Whispered at Dawn

My waders hissed against dew-covered grass as I stumbled toward the riverbank. Moonlight clung to the mist like cobwebs, revealing swirling patterns where smallmouth bass might be feeding. I paused to rub frozen fingers - the digital thermometer read 48°F, but the promise of pre-spawn bronzebacks kept me gripping my rod.

The third cast with a ned rig brought sudden tension. 'Just another snag,' I muttered, until the 'snag' head-shaked. My fluorocarbon line sawed through current as the fish bulldogged toward submerged timber. 'Not this time,' I whispered, applying side pressure until my wrists ached.

At water's edge, I knelt to admire olive-green flanks glimmering with ruby spots. The smallmouth's gills flared once, twice, before she vanished in a silver swirl. Behind me, a great blue heron croaked - nature's slow clap. I grinned at the empty net. Some victories don't need witnesses.