The Meadow’s Soul
by Scott Shaffer

It’s a summer afternoon in the mid 70’s, sunny, with a surprisingly gentle wind
for central Illinois. Wisps of white clouds randomly streak the clear, blue sky.

Wanting to bathe away cares in creation’s beauty, my friend and I drive to
a nature preserve I have never hiked. We park at the edge of the meadow,

step into the peaceful prairie. No one else is about. I imagine the lovely meadow
whispering in the soft breeze, “Welcome, friend. It’s good to have you visit

my prairie grass.” I stand as still as a deer, listening. “Please wade through
my tallgrass; explore my surrounding woods and river; relish the sight and scent

of my flora; discover my wildlife.” To my right, I notice a weathered rock
of remembrance: “Here Bowling Green, Illinois was laid out in 1836.”

The friendly meadow sighs and explains, “The village is barely a memory.”
I pick up a positive note in her amiable spirit. “Truth be told, I prefer

it this way. Now my occasional visitor can more easily wander drifts
of blooming wild flowers; revel in screeches of my red-tailed hawks; traipse

my trails following old settler roads; and–if it’s your day–snag a glimpse
of my eagles or sleeping barred owls.” Grateful, I smile, and start hiking the meadow.



 

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