The Bridge That Swings

The river came down from the mountains in a bed half a kilometer wide, all pale stones and braided water, and the villages solved it the honest way: a footbridge of planks and cable, long as a sentence you regret starting, swinging to its own opinion of your rhythm.

Crossing one of these is plank arithmetic, you audit each board with your eyes one step ahead of your feet, while the horizon tilts gently like a ship. Halfway across, the river loud underneath, I paid the selfie tax, arm out, hair everywhere, laughing at the physics. The far bank was in no hurry and neither, suddenly, was I. Bridges like this are my favorite infrastructure because they are exactly as strong as necessary and not one bolt more, which is a kind of rural honesty. I crossed back slower than I came. The river kept braiding. The bridge kept its own counsel, swaying.