Where aspen grazes pine, the trail leans left
then bleeds into a bog of sumpy gloom,
until, voila, a cobbled bridge appears.
Or not a bridge. Call it a puzzle pieced
from logs and stones some maker had on hand.
It keeps one’s toes and destination dry.
Who knows what kicks it down each spring---
some breaking storm, a gang of cows gone rogue?
And what seeker, ankle deep in muck,
builds it back again? Slog on, fellow engineer!
In the Andes, peasants spin bridges out
of grass and llama spit and walk their fear
above swinging miles. Our bridge hides its art
in seep and scruffy luck but lets us walk
from here to there and see how village life
unfolds ahead in spindrift alchemy.