When the River Whispered Secrets

The predawn chill bit through my flannel as I stepped onto the dew-slick dock. Somewhere in the Mississippi backwaters, a bullfrog croaked its disapproval of my spinnerbait box clinking in the stillness. I always fish the willow cluster at first light - today the water wore a cloak of mist so thick I could taste its dampness on my lips.

Three casts. Three snags. The submerged timber seemed to laugh as my line snapped again. 'Maybe the old man was right about switching to fluorocarbon line,' I muttered, retying for the fourth time. That's when the surface erupted - not the familiar boil of feeding bass, but a silver flash that sent dragonflies skittering sideways.

For twenty frantic minutes, the smallmouth played conductor to my screaming reel. Its acrobatic jumps sprayed rainbows in the new sunlight, tailwalking across current seams I hadn't noticed before. When I finally lipped the bronze warrior, our eyes met briefly - wildness reflecting wildness - before she vanished in a swirl of amber water.

Walking back past the willows, I realized the river had shifted its contours overnight. New sandbars emerged where yesterday's honey hole lay. Sometimes the fish aren't the only catch; sometimes the water itself rearranges the rules.