When the River Whispers at Midnight

The full moon hung like a silver platter over the Mississippi when my waders crunched on the gravel bank. I always bring my lucky raccoon tail keychain - the one my daughter found at Bussey Lake - clipped to my tackle box. The 60-pound braided line felt coarse between my fingers as I rigged my soft plastic bait, the smell of nightcrawlers mixing with damp earth.

『Three hours, zero bites,』 I muttered, watching the current swallow another cast. My Coleman lantern attracted moths but no channel cats. Then the orange float twitched - not the usual dance, but a deliberate sideways crawl. My spinning reel handle left crescent moons in my palm as I set the hook.

Something primordial surged beneath the black water. The rod curved into a trembling C-shape, drag screaming like a banshee. 『Not the log this time,』 I grunted to the night, boots sliding in slick mud. When the 22-pound flathead finally surfaced, its barbels glowed ghostly white in moonlight.

I sat on the tailgate at dawn, coffee steaming beside the empty cooler. Somewhere downstream, a great blue heron took flight - wings beating the same rhythm as my still-thundering pulse.