I walked above the water on a bridge from a downtown to nowhere else. I didn't even make it to the end. My toes almost fell into the slotted square holes-holding tight to the support beams as they danced under the weight of strange travellers' steps.
Or was that the bridge struggling under my feet? Writhing away from the bolts and poles that kept it above the water. Though tied from end to end the center wanted to give in, to bend, to bow, to bathe in the river below.
Or perhaps the undulations were just the movements of the bridge's breathing. After all, it was a live bridge. In the setting sun of an autumn dusk the life lines of bridge weavers became visible. Nearly translucent, but strong as steel, the spiders made that bridge. I could see the beams, wires turned into support structures after thousands of miles of spinning silk dreams into a hard reality.
The currents below my feet and the rhythms of the bridge coinciding with my steps, surrounded by the continued webs of still-alive and pale, yellow sunlight, offered a space to feel like I was flying--traveling to no end, but journeying the sky.
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