Where the dirt trail dips, a wooden bridge sprouts between leaf-strewn hills. The way is narrow, the rails mere placemarkers between dry footing and the marsh below. Repairs are made each spring, but as the seasons move forward, firm boards become soft, joists creak, and surfaces become slick with moss.
It is winter now, and each solid heel-strike feels like a triumph over time.
(today’s entry for the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge)2 Like This