The river resembled handblown glass window panes this morning. Oakley and I watched from the observation platform. Its surface was a bit rough, and the reflection of leaves of the trees blended with the silt to color it grey-green. It’s running high and swift from the recent rains. Nothing stops the Fox on its journey from Lake Michigan near Green Bay down to the Illinois River near Ottawa. It flows around, through, and over anything in its channel.
It’s easy to get to. Main trail back to a relatively flat trail of perhaps an eighth of a mile that curves its way through some maples. Once there, Oakley likes to lie down on the platform, relishing the cool deck on his tummy. I simply watch, meditate to the soft rush of time and water.
We’ve watched eagles, hawks, and herons as they soar and circle over the river or take flight in the woods. Occasionally an owl inquires “who-o-o” as they day draws to a close. We’ve been startled by chipmunks and scolded by squirrels. It’s usually just us as we sit there, watching. Not often, but sometimes on a weekend we get startled by humans. We excuse ourselves, secure in our knowledge that we can return at our leisure and can share.
The river is bisected by a small wooded island at that point. A change, an obstacle, then once around it, the river reaches a new place of wholeness.
Like the river and its course, new challenges are placing themselves in my path. I place my faith in knowing that all will be well, and prefer to concentrate on simply flowing around them.