When the River Whispers at Dawn

My breath hung in the air like mist on a mirror as I stepped onto the dew-slick dock. The James River was breathing this morning - soft ripples kissing my waders while bullfrogs croaked lazy objections to my intrusion. I rubbed the frayed brim of my lucky baseball cap, its sweat-stained fabric smelling of sunscreen and decades of fish stories.

'Try the eddy behind the sycamore,' my fishing partner Tom had suggested last night. But three casts with a spinnerbait yielded only a waterlogged branch. The current chuckled at my efforts, carrying away another empty retrieve.

Then it happened - that electric tap-tap vibrating up the line. My rod arched like a cat's spine as bronze scales breached the surface. 'Not again,' I muttered, remembering yesterday's snapped leader. But this fighter dove deep, the drag singing its metallic protest. When I finally lipped the smallmouth bass, its golden flanks glowed like liquid amber in the rising sun.

As I released the thrashing beauty, a kingfisher's laugh echoed downriver. The water kept flowing, carrying my whispered thanks toward whatever secret lies beyond the next bend.