Over Water

The river pulled below, a dark, slow drag.

And overhead, the steel, a metal flag

of rust and paint, a constant, low-voiced hum.

A truck went past, the structure felt quite numb,

then shivered, shook. I felt it in my bone,

a temporary home, yet not my own.

The rivets caught the light, small, rounded eyes,

holding the whole thing up against the skies.

A testament to will, to measured force,

to span the gap, to chart a forward course.

But down below, the current, sly and deep,

held secrets that the pilings tried to keep.

A whisper of a creak, a groan, a sigh,

as something passes over, or goes by.

And all that holds it here, this steady span,

is faith in the designed, the builder’s plan.

The river moves. The bridge just stands its ground,

a fragile link, a tenuous, solid sound.