When the Catfish Taught Me to Listen

Moonlight silvered the Mississippi's currents as fireflies danced between cypress knees. I adjusted my Carolina rig, the scent of chicken liver clinging stubbornly to my fingertips. 'Tonight's the night,' I whispered to the river, though the fifth consecutive skunked hour made it feel more like prayer than prediction.

Bullfrogs stopped croaking when the first ripple appeared. My glow-in-the-dark bobber vanished like a snuffed candle. The rod bent double before my brain registered the strike - river current suddenly fighting river monster. 'Steady now,' I croaked, line singing as the beast bulldozed toward submerged roots.

When the headlamp finally illuminated that whiskered maw, I found myself apologizing. Not for the hook in its lip, but for ever doubting the river's schedule. The catfish's gills flared once more before disappearing into black water, leaving me wiser than I'd arrived.