Whispers in the Marsh Grass

Three cups of coffee still couldn't warm my fingers as the jon boat cut through predawn mist. The old baseball cap I always wear for luck - the one with the frayed brim and 2017 Bassmaster logo - kept catching droplets from the cypress trees. I aimed my headlamp at the soft plastic lure box, its contents glowing like candy in the beam.

'Should've brought the green pumpkin,' I muttered, threading a junebug-colored worm onto the hook. For two hours the tannin-stained water teased me with false strikes. Then the lily pads quivered in a way no wind could explain.

My spinning reel sang its high-pitched protest as something massive dove for the hydrilla forest. 'Talk to me, girl,' I crooned, thumbing the spool like calming a startled horse. When the 8-pounder finally rolled onto its side, I saw my own wide-eyed reflection in its marble-black eye.

By noon the marsh had swallowed all evidence of our struggle. Only the trembling rod tip in my left hand remembered the dance.