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A Word in Passing


There’s           no         bridge           here.
.
Though    I    can    see    why     you’ve
come,     traveler.    This    would       be
​
the      crossing,     and      once       was.
You    can   see    the   stumps     across
​
the    way.   The    two   wooden    ones,
where    the    rope    looks   like     thick
​
vine.   See  it?  That      used to    be   the
other    side.    It   was     a      marvelous
​
road     of     wooden       planks,      held
together    by     fat,    twisted       strings.
​
It     had      hung    there,    over     there,
with    its      belly    dipping     in        the
​
middle,     since      before     my      time.
And     it’s  been     a    while,       traveler.
​
Too    many     passing     through.    And
the     weather      to     be      considered.
​
You’re   too   late    though.    It snapped
right   in  two,    I   heard,   with  the  big
​
winds      and       rain       last        spring.
Drowned     the      little      town   across
​
the        way         there,          remember?
You       probably         don’t,        traveler. 

There’s          no           bridge            here.

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