Wander | River Morning
The river was gentle now, and calm, skimming over rocks, burbling between boulders, taking its wandering time. On its shoulders, the grass had gone pale, all hollow stems and rustling leaves, chlorophyll drained right out. Just ahead, the eastern sky was promising the sun.
I hiked through the dim along the river there, my clothes catching dew as I waded grasses taller than I. Whitetail deer whistled as they leaped from their hidden beds, their tails flagging, racing toward open fields. Nose to the ground, Nellie disappeared in search of mice, leaving nothing but a trail of quivering wild grain heads behind.
I kept my eye on the brightening eastern sky, waiting for the moment when the sun would spill into day, when the earth would awaken. There’s something about the space before dawn. There’s a pause there, then a stirring, an expectancy, a hope. An inner knowing of the abiding faithfulness built into the very structure of the universe: sunrise. It always comes. It’s never late. A day is never missed.
Then, just beyond the place where the swampy pond tips into the river’s flow, the golden sunlight came. Quietly, warmly, vibrantly. Suddenly, every leaf on every branch on every tree was a piece of dangling colored glass. Millions of them. Reds and golds, bronzy browns and limey greens, illuminated, glowing in the gentle morning sun. Below, the rippled water’s face made multiples of it all.
