River Musings

The river, which in pioneer days was a marshy trickle on the table-flat prairie, now flows through a canyon, whose walls now draw all attention away from the river itself. The towering buildings and concreted riverbanks rise precipitously above the water's surface, housing the office workers and transporting pedestrians all of whom are too preoccupied to give the river any notice. The river which, after all, is the reason this great city rose on this formerly desolate stretch of lakefront in the first place.

Once the hub of the city's perpetual bustle, heavy barge traffic going to and fro from the wharves which once lined the banks, taking in all manner of goods to be merchanted on the chaos of South Water Street, the river now flows quietly. The rare barge comes through, loaded with gravel or scrap metal from either the north or south branches, its pushboat providing an inkling of the long-lost allure of river life. But more common are the pleasure boats bound for the more affordable inland marinas, and the tourist-laden excursion liners offering rote, superficial lectures to listeners who are mostly there to enjoy the sun. The river, once so incomparably vital, is now just another part of the scenery, and a minor one compared to the soaring towers which remain forever in its debt.