When the River Whispered Back

3:17AM. The dashboard clock's glow illuminated my thermos of burnt coffee as tires hummed against gravel. Chilly spring air seeped through my old Ford's vents, carrying the musky scent of dew-soaked ferns. My lucky fluorocarbon line coiled in the tackle box like sleeping serpent, waiting.

Moonlight silvered the Chattahoochee's eddies when I waded in. For forty-three casts, nothing. Not even the usual bluegill nibbles. 'Maybe the smallmouth forgot their calendar,' I muttered, recasting toward a submerged log. The current tugged at my waders with cold fingers.

Sunrise bled crimson across the water when it happened - three quick tugs followed by heart-stopping stillness. Rod tip quivering, I whispered the prayer every bass angler knows: 'Not snagged, not snagged, please not...' The river exploded in a shower of gold.

Twenty minutes later, cradling the emerald-flanked warrior, I noticed my trembling hands mirrored the water's surface ripples. The release felt like returning a stolen poem to its author.

Driving home, I realized rivers don't give up secrets - they lend them, briefly, to those willing to listen between casts.