Bridge in the Woods

Far off beyond golden fields
The irrigation ditch begins its life as a spring
Then bubbles down a rocky slope to unspool into a ribbon stream.
Wildwood and brambles grow alongside
Choking the Earth for a chance to drink.
A man stands on the stream bank, seeking to cross.
He watches the spun glass ripples of stream over rock bed
Imagines the frigid pain that surely would strike at him
Were he to step foot in its waters.
Seeking a way over, the man walks along the stream
Passing through the thick woods without ease or grace
And soon discovers an old bridge spanning its width
Worm-bitten, sagging with the long years since an unknown hand built it.
The man eyes the bridge, the gaps between its planks.
Surely it would collapse with the slightest weight placed upon it.
But there cannot be another crossing in these woods
They are too thick.
So the man sits, breathing air just feeling the first trace of spring,
To wait for the stream to dry up.

Original Photography

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