Watching at Eastbank

Thursday Morning in March

The morning begins wrapped in fog. I step outside with my coffee, and the world feels hushed, almost sacred. The air is cool and damp, the kind that makes every breath feel like renewal. Dew covers the grass with each drop holding the faintest reflection of the sky, waiting for the sun.

I sit in the corner of my campsite where the first light finds me. The warmth soaks into my chair, into my hands, into my mood. The fog begins to lift.

A few grackles move through the grass, dark feathers flashing deep blue in the sun. They peck and tilt their heads, hopping between patches of light and shadow. A dove joins them, then more grackles, until the quiet fills with gentle sounds.

From the edge of the trees, a squirrel races toward the picnic table. It stops halfway and looks right at me bold, unafraid, curious. For a second, it feels like we understand each other. Then it darts away, as if the moment was enough.

I notice a smaller grackle approaching the larger ones, eager but hesitant. The older bird lets out a sharp cry, and the little one backs away. Life here has its own rhythm, its own small hierarchies. Nothing lasts long. A blue jay swoops in, flashes of color, and the doves scatter.

The sun climbs higher. The dew disappears. Three squirrels take the stage now, combing through the lawn for acorns, tails flicking as they find their treasures. Suddenly a distant sound echoes from across the field. Every one of them freezes. In a heartbeat, they vanish into the trees.

The stillness that follows feels deeper somehow.

After a while, I decide to hike the short trail. The trail looks easy at first, but fallen trees block the way no matter which path I take. I try a few turns, but each one ends in the same way. Eventually, I turn back toward camp. Maybe the forest just wanted me to see this small piece and no more.

Later, under the awning, I enjoy some coffee. The air shifts. A breeze moves in from the southwest, carrying the scent of pine and lake water. The calm surface that mirrored the morning sky now ripples with restless waves. The tall pines begin to sing, their cones dropping to the ground with soft, heavy thuds.

The wind grows stronger. My camper door slowly closes with a creaking sound. The sky is still perfectly blue, not a cloud in sight. I watch and wait. Eventually, the wind fades. The air softens again. The surface of the lake becomes calm and smooth. The quiet returns.

I sit there for a long time just watching the light move, the wind shift, the world breathe.

And I realize how much beauty lives in these small, passing moments. The ones that ask for nothing from us. The ones that happen whether we’re paying attention or not.

That morning, I was there. Watching. Breathing. Grateful.

A thought to carry with you:
When was the last time you sat still long enough for the world to move around you?