Into the light of a new day, a narrow wooden bridge yawned across the raging river. A hundred feet below, or so it seemed to Earnest, the water was so white it was as if a cloud had fallen into the valley. Yet it was neither peaceful nor fluffy, instead the water jumped as if it were boiling amid the snow and ice. Curling his fingers around the fraying rope, he sent up a prayer and heard his first footfall-creak.
The bridge was a welcoming arch of golden bricks amid the green hills.
There is a kind of relaxation that comes at the midpoint of the bridge, letting one's feet full rest, remaining in an extended moment, hearing the blues of the water sing in reflected sunlight notes.
The bridge had graced this landscape for all of living memory and to my heart it was source of joy, for it was how we visited friends upon the other side.
Abby wondered how many bricks it took to build a bridge, how many of those perfectly imperfect blocks of clay went into creating such a structure. She skipped over the golden-yellow surface, her eyes seeing the variations in the hue, how parts of the clay had been a more earthen brown. Pausing in the centre she peeked at the water that flowed underneath, as if it were some immortal and fluid vein of the planet. Then she skipped on to the other side, to the fairground and the bonny music that played.
The bridge strode over the river with the confidence of the young and the competence of the wise.