The Meuse. It springs. Water slips free from the earth’s grip, vaulting—escaping deep darkness. A humble volcano of water. The start of the river—somewhere on a high French plateau—seems hesitant. It trickles atop a plateau, then flows down like a stream.
Once it starts gushing, it—wins strength. The Meuse is a rain river—a collecting basin. On its way to the delta, rain adds to it. A tributary flows in. That’s how the river gains weight. And that weight keeps falling. The Meuse is a flow of falling water.
Maybe sleeping close to a river brings gentler dreams than sleeping beside a ditch: fewer frogs, more fish. Less mud, more murmur. Less pasture, more Benelux.
Maybe sleeping along its bank brings softer dreams than sleeping in a city: less tram jingling. A twig floats. A drifting stone tumbles on the bed.
In September, someone stands watch over the Meuse every day—especially the 5th, 6th, and 7th—where a three-year-old keeps vigil (a report is coming soon). It’s all part of Maaswacht, inside Maaslab, a joint effort with SoAP, TAAT, and the river itself.