The bridge across is wearing thin.
Holes are becoming greater in size with each mourning day that passes, for that day will soon be here.
The wood, with splits and broken timbers, rotting in the sun, after days of wetness hold it beneath the clouds above, it essence feeling bowed.
Trees with spindly branch’s turn and scratch it in the wind, their sparse bodies spread and ancient feels of days that passed, still creak again.
When the moment comes to walk this bridge, from this life to the next, pray each hole can be seen; each iron bit be missed, and to the other side be seen.
Ralph Peck
Photography by Belva Shelton
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