For the "Line" challenge at Tolkien_weekly.

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Yellow irises rose above the marsh like banners, and the tiny boat drifted in a sea of green swords.

The fisher trailed one hand in the water as he lazily swung the willow switch back and forth. He had baited his line with a deadly prize, a nightcrawler dug from the garden. Too late would his prey feel the cut of the hook, discover the hidden treachery. The fisher knew he need only wait. Sooner or later, some unwary creature would seize the offered bait.

Six feet below, in the mud of the river-bed, sunlight glinted on a golden ring.