When the River Whispered at Midnight

Three layers of clothing couldn't stop the November chill from crawling up my spine as I waded into the Susquehanna. My soft plastic lure box rattled like maracas with each cautious step, the river's black velvet surface swallowing the moonlight whole.

'Should've brought the neoprene gloves,' I muttered, watching my breath crystallize in the air. The third cast landed with a perfect *plop* near submerged timber. Two twitches, then - nothing. By sunrise, I'd memorized every pebble in this stretch.

It happened during the ritual coffee break. My thermos cap floated downstream, and as I scrambled to catch it, the spinning reel's drag screamed to life. Rod bent double, boots skidding on frost-slick rocks, I danced with something primal in the ink-dark water. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its golden flank glowed like liquid moonlight.

I held my trophy briefly, feeling its heartbeat sync with mine. The release sent ripples across constellations reflected in the water. Walking back, I noticed my coffee had formed ice crystals - and couldn't stop grinning.