When the Reeds Spoke in Murmurs

Three thirty in the morning smelled like coffee grounds and diesel exhaust. My boot soles stuck to the boat deck where last week's soft plastic craw had left its ghostly imprint. The tidal marsh breathed around me, heron silhouettes rippling in the flashlight's yellow circle.

By dawn's first blush, I was knee-deep in irony - the 'secret spot' now hosting three other boats. My casting rhythm faltered when a chrome-lipped bass breached between two strangers' hulls. 'Should've brought the topwater,' I muttered, thumbing the worn grip of my spinning rod.

Sunrise burned off the mist to reveal what the night hid: a labyrinth of drowned timber. Something plucked my senko mid-sentence as I cursed the heat. The fluorocarbon line sang taut, then slack - leaving only a single scale shimmering on the hook point like mercury.

Noon found me parched and philosophical, watching bluegills kiss the surface. That's when the reed wall erupted. Not the polite swirl of feeding fish, but a watery explosion that soaked my sunburnt neck. The drag screamed in protest as something primal tore through cabbage weeds.

When it ended - with 8 pounds of furious smallmouth thrashing in the net - I noticed my shaking hands smelled of victory and swamp mud. The bass kept its secrets, but the reeds whispered theirs all afternoon.