A Word in Passing
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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. |