It sits, secluded behind someone’s house. I suppose you could consider them the “Keepers of the Bridge”, but maybe they don’t even care at all. The path is lined with weeds. They overtake the path almost completely, blocking out the sun. The crumbling dirt gives away to ancient rocks, maybe there longer than anyone can remember. In pieces,they decline down, as if giving up, into the earth. A whoosh of wind and the smell of humidity and the sound of wind washed over the surroundings, complimented with the harmonies of bird’s chirps and nature’s songs.
Under a canopy of grandfatherly trees, stand the Bridge. Stoically displaying the path across the abyss below, that is dotted with shrubs and flowers. Even under the weight of many, it stands heroic after thousands of years. The trees gracefully sweep their limbs protectively across the stone. The light hits the rock, causing an array of grey, prettier than one would think. The unprotected edge beckons like a mistress in the night to draw closer. The thoughts of falling endlessly makes the edge seem more dangerous, but the view from it is breathtaking.
As the path sweeps up, a glance back, a memory carved into my mind, of the Bridge, that few know about, but are lucky to have seen.