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.