Before Inspiration

Sunday and the river is peaceful. It’s the quiet before the spring when a virtual crossword puzzle of docks goes in, boats with clever names are launched, and people stroll the complex of marina shouting nautical salutations. By summer more than a hundred boats will fill the shoreline and several more will slide in the current rolling up and down the river. Sounds will be everywhere.

But right now, right here, there’s a brilliant silence. Not a boat is navigating the river and all the docks are still stacked up in the boat yard. The surrounding land is also serene. There, it’s the quiet before the storm of spring when buds bloom and flowers blossom and trees begin to leaf. But right now there’s this emptiness. Even last week’s snow is melting in most places.

The swollen tide is going out to sea. Two Canada geese float by. An eagle wanders the atmosphere every now and then. The sky is mostly cloudy but a few patches of blue intervene and a stray ray of sunshine lands at my feet.

Right now: the river sparkles upstream. The water turns from slate gray to a burnished silver. A hint of navy appears. The snow across the river brightens and pines across the river turn a lighter shade of green and grow in character, no longer a monolith of shade. My hands warm as I write this.

It’s been four months since I last stood here and watched the vista from this vantage point. In-between winter happened. Now spring is just about to. But now nothing happens. Everything is still. Not even a poem is being written.