When the Marsh Whispered at Dawn

The crunch of frost beneath my waders echoed through the silent marsh as first light painted the sky watermelon pink. My breath hung visible in the air, each exhale carrying memories of last season's monster redfish that bent my spinning reel to its limits. Today I carried the same lucky jighead in my pocket - its paint chipped from that epic battle.

Three casts in, the soft plastic lure got rejected twice. 'Tide's moving slower than my grandma's cane,' I muttered, watching mullet skitter away from my line. The coffee in my thermos tasted bitter with disappointment.

Then the water coughed. Not a splash, but that distinctive gulp-bubble sound redfish make when tailing. My knees sank into the pluff mud as I sidearmed a cast. The lure landed with a kiss where the oyster bed met the grass. Two twitches. The line zinged seaward like a banjo string plucked by Poseidon himself.

Twenty minutes later, I stood shin-deep in the salt marsh holding a 28-inch copper-sided warrior. Its black spot stared back, a liquid eye reflecting the rising sun. As I released it, the fish's tail slapped a farewell note on the water's surface - nature's applause echoing through the awakening wetlands.