When the River Whispers Secrets

The truck's headlights carved trembling paths through predawn mist as I crossed the old iron bridge. My thermos of bitter gas station coffee sloshed in rhythm with the radio's static-laced country music - a symphony for solitary anglers. The spinnerbaits in my tackle box clicked like castanets with every pothole, their silver blades still crusted with yesterday's disappointment.

River rocks groaned beneath my waders as I waded into the current. Mayflies danced in the amber glow of my headlamp, their delicate wings brushing my cheeks like ghostly fingertips. Three fruitless hours later, my casting arm moved on muscle memory alone. 'Maybe the smallmouth have migrated,' I muttered to a disinterested heron, watching my chartreuse crankbait bob lifelessly downstream.

Then the water blinked.

A single bubble surfaced where my lure had been. Heart suddenly drumming against my ribcage, I sent the next cast singing through the air. The fluorocarbon line went taut mid-retrieve, the rod arching like a willow in a storm. The river erupted as a bronze-backed torpedo breached, shaking diamond droplets from its jaw. My drag screamed the oldest song in the world.

When I finally cradled the exhausted smallmouth, its gills flaring like scarlet origami, dawn's first light was gilding the sycamores. The fish slid back into the current with a dismissive flick of its tail. Some mysteries aren't meant to be kept - only borrowed.