Behind our barn,
on the neigbhouring property,
there is a plain, old concrete bridge
over a little brook
that goes by our house and winds its way
into the Avon River.
It is for the farm equipment to access the fields.
It dips down enough that you think that
you are alone,
secluded in the woods, faraway.
There is a huge old willow
weeping over the brook.
In the spring, or after a huge rain,
the water tumbles over the rocks,
sometimes rushing like a
great and mighty falls.
Other times it is more like
a trickle.
There is always some movement,
some sound -
roaring and rushing
or
quiet and melodic.
My children,
and now my grandchildren,
have always been drawn to that bridge.
It is
a secret place
far enough away
but close enough to home
to feel
safety and freedom and adventure.
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