When the River Whispered at Midnight

Moonlight silvered the Wisconsin River as my waders sank into the cold current. I always fish alone on summer solstice – it's when smallmouth bass go crazy for topwater frogs. Or at least that's what the old man at the bait shop claimed yesterday.

Three hours in, my lucky raccoon tail keychain felt heavier than my tackle box. Nothing but nibbles. Then the water blinked. A mayfly hatch erupted, turning the surface into liquid starlight. My hands shook tying on a new leader – smallmouth love chaos.

The strike came during that dangerous moment when doubt creeps in. My graphite rod bent double as something primal surged downstream. 'Talk to me, baby,' I growled through clenched teeth, the line singing like a theremin. When I finally lip-landed her, we both paused – me gasping, the bronze warrior flexing gills in the moonlight.

I released her facing upstream, watching my reflection ripple in the dark water. Somewhere behind me, an owl laughed.