Monday Morning Muse

It's going to be a great day!

I know this because the sun is rising, the temperatures are warm enough for a light sweater, the trees are filling with that wonderful spring green only visible a few days a year, and there's laughter outside my windows.

That's right. The kidlets of the neighborhood are getting to the last days of school and they are feeling the freedom close at hand. I live near a college. This past weekend was filled with commencement exercises, parties, family celebrations and a few raucous parties for those leaving school for the big wide world.

Over the next days, the neighborhood will empty out. Students moving from the dorms will return home, travel to Europe for study, or simply leave for a holiday. Families will leave town for the Memorial Day weekend, and those of us remaining will marvel at the quiet of early summer mornings once again.

Then we shall hear the silence. It is time to wander to the river. A brief saunter around the campus near my home brings me to the property of an old seminary. Students there study God. I study the silence of God for a moment. Quietly, I move across the lawn and listen. All of us occupying that area, even for a few short minutes, listen for some sound or other. Are we listening to God? Is God speaking on the morning breeze?

Wandering a bit further to the west, I reach the banks of the Mississippi River. The river is not very wide at this point, having grown from a trickle up in northern Minnesota. My part of my Mississippi is north of Lock and Dam No. 1. There are few boats travelling the river this far north. Most carry food, coal or other commodities.

The banks are steep and filled with trees, wildflowers and an array of birds that is breathtaking. I often stand still and look up, hoping to see the what newcomers are arriving on the last waves of the spring migration.

Owls, flying on silent wings, swoop from the air and capture a bit of breakfast for their young.

I listen intently to hear the sounds of the river. The sounds of traffic are muted along the riverbank where the trees are thick. Sharp ratta-tat-tapping indicates a pileated woodpecker is finding bugs for a feast. Other sounds tell me squirrels are warning an intruder away from their young. A rustling of leaves indicates a raccoon is rumbling along the river, earnestly seeking nourishment.

We are fed by this river, all of us. Our bread rides south in barges filled with grain. Our lights are powered by coal transported by riverboat. Our books go past in the form of pulpwood. Our souls are filled and fed by the music of birds and conversations among the small animals calling the riverbank their home.

This river, this watery highway of commerce and path of migration, is my home. This river was home to Mark Twain. This river on this Monday morning is my inspiration. I stand still one more time, listening to the river. I am spellbound as I behold limitless beauty moving before my eyes. The river is alive with possibilities.

Monday morning, on the riverbank, and it shall be a wonder filled day indeed.