A Sense of Place
There was a buzz of many voices filling the air as people talked and shared a meal at Eastside Park.
There was a sense of excitement coursing through me as I ran back and forth across the green, cultivated grass, wet with a thick layer of dew as I played soccer with my friends on the mall.
There was a welcoming stillness as I walked along the path in the horticultural garden, the plants brown, deadened by winter’s cold grip.
There were tall grass prairie plants, an array of greens, yellows, and purples lining the bike path, I marveled at the waving prairie grass as I walked.
There was a sense of fascination as I watched a turtle poke its head up out of the murky river water.
There was a thrill as a fuzzy, brown, big teethed, little critter came up out of the water, shaking dry; I saw a muskrat for the first time in my life.
There was the smooth skin, tickle of little feet on my palm as I held a tiger salamander in my hand, near Crystal Lake on the west of town.
There was the soft, warm, wet feel of the nose of a cow sniffing my hand, as I reached across the fence, feeling a connection with home.
This was Morris, a small town on the flat, open prairie of west central Minnesota.
Note: This is another journal entry from my writing class at the University of Minnesota at Morris