When the River Whispered at Dusk

My waders squelched in the marsh grass as fireflies began their evening dance. The Chattahoochee's current carried the sharp scent of wet limestone, my spinnerbaits clinking like wind chimes against the tackle box. 'Should've brought the heavier gear,' I muttered, watching a bullfrog leap from a half-submerged log.

First casts sent concentric rings racing toward Georgia's red clay banks. Nothing. Not even the usual bluegill nibbles. My lucky hat - stained with three seasons of fish slime - suddenly felt foolish. Then the water blinked.

A subtle dimple upstream. Then another. My hands shook wrapping fresh fluorocarbon line as mayflies hatched in swirling clouds. The strike came violent - rod tip plunging toward darkening water. Twenty yards downstream, smallmouth bass breached in a silver arc, twilight catching its crimson gills.

When I finally released her, the river carried my laughter and one perfect scale glinting on my sleeve. The night birds kept singing.