the Magic Hour at the river

He once spoke of the Magic Hour, that dusky burst of color, all magic and such. You can see it on hillsides, on trains, on rooftops, but have you ever seen it from the perch of a rock, resting on the shores of the Mississippi?

She's a mighty river, it's true, but none is more perfect for watching and waiting and breathing in the wet air of the Deep South. None is more perfect, on this night anyway, for the Magic Hour. Though sweet serenity might sing through the hillsides, a swiftly pacing barge drifts right past you, the backdrop on this particular night. It's of no matter - who can spoil the Magic Hour? Even clouds and rainstorms only spread a veil over this happening, yet still it is there.

You've not known a good evening until you known an evening on the banks of the Mississippi, breezes and voices from the north, all gathered together for this Hour... and once it's passed, the lingering begins. For who can turn away so quickly? "Ah, it is gone so soon!"

But tomorrow it will return. The Magic Hour at the river.

Here at the magic hour

time and eternity

mingle a moment in chorus

Here at the magic hour

bright is the mystery

plain is the beauty before us

Could this beauty be for us?

["The Magic Hour" from

Counting Stars, Andrew Peterson]