When the River Whispered at Dusk

My waders squeaked in the rhythm of cicadas as I stepped into the Susquehanna's embrace. Sunset painted the water in marmalade streaks, the kind of light that makes spinnerbaits look like fleeing minnows. I could still taste the bitter coffee from the gas station thermos - my third wife would've called that breakfast.

『Maybe the smallmouth remember me,』 I muttered to a blue heron standing sentinel on a half-submerged log. My casting arm tensed with muscle memory developed over thirty seasons. The first three drifts yielded nothing but aquatic shadows playing tricks.

Twilight deepened when my line twitched in that particular way - not snag nor current, but something breathing. The rod arched like a cathedral doorway as umber water exploded. 『Holy mother of...!』 I barked to no one, the braided line burning grooves into my index finger.

Later, releasing the bronze-backed warrior, I noticed my lucky river stone glowing in the moonlight. The river chuckled over rounded pebbles, carrying away my whispered thanks.