When the River Whispers at Midnight

Moonlight silvered the Mississippi's currents as I waded into the shallows, chicken liver rig dangling from my trembling fingers. The 2am air smelled of wet limestone and my grandfather's pipe tobacco - I always keep a pinch in my vest pocket for luck.

'You're chasing ghosts,' my brother had scoffed when I mentioned flathead catfish. But here I stood, hip-deep in liquid shadows where the channel cats prowl. First cast: nothing. Second: a snag that stole my favorite sinker. On the third, the line twitched like a live wire.

'Just a channel dweller,' I muttered, until the rod bent double. Braided abrasion-resistant line sawed through water as something primal surged downstream. The river rose to my chest when the beast turned, its tailthrob vibrating up the carbon fiber shaft into my bones.

Twenty-three minutes later, moonlight revealed whiskers thicker than my thumb. We stared at each other, this river monarch and the fool who'd forgotten his net. With surgical precision, I worked the hook free, its amber eye reflecting galaxies before disappearing in a swirl of mud and stars.

Dawn found me shivering on the bank, nursing coffee gone cold. The tobacco pouch was soaked through, but for once, the Mississippi's secrets felt heavier in my palms than any trophy.