Author’s Note for Readers:

The landscape photos of bridges aren’t necessarily the exact bridges written about. They are rather an impressionistic portrayal of bridges I have seen in general, through photos I have taken on my travels and liked. 

Perhaps the first bridge I remember was the one in the ravine where the temperature of the air was cooler for some reason and the water only went lightly past and in a shallow manner underneath. Save for when it rained because the storm water from the suburban sprawl was directed down there through industrial grade street grates and then the many series of tunnels mysterious to consider. These were the days of dirt bikes and playing war in the forests, of walking to or from school if one missed the bus. Not bad. The bridge was rickety then, but they have since rebuilt it. Stronger. Wider. More serious. Better than it was I suppose for the Canadian winters. It says not to salt it, for the city workers to read, perhaps 

because though it melts snow and ice and gives a certain amount of traction, salt damages things. 

Another bridge, wildly different in location and structure both, was one that led to an inter coastal waterway in Florida. It was

mechanical and cars and pedestrians went over it until the caution lights came on and it was time for it to go slowly upwards like the letter A and then the letter H for the vessels to go under it. There was a hardware store beside it and a Burger King. Then a corner with all kinds of tourist shops that sold towels, t-shirts, suntan lotion, and all kinds of bric a brac and souvenirs.

 I liked the smell of the iron on t-shirt store and wanted to get one of skulls and snakes, but my mother wouldn’t let me, so I think I settled for one with palm trees and the sea with the sun setting in the distance. 

Back in the north, there are small wooden bridges where I walk. But they still have a good structure and are ‘sound’ as engineering goes. That’s my feeling anyhow as they don’t waiver or shift and I’ve noticed they live through impossibly cold and snowy winters with no problem. Beige reeds grow upon the sides and chaparral is there. I pause and take a picture or two in all seasons, which here are winter spring summer fall. 

Each had a mood and the differing countenances of the atmospheres made for many new poems, writings, and photos each year. One morning on a favourite bridge in that area, one that went over a river that followed marshlands that allowed a sanctuary from the busy and ambitious world, a coyote and I crossed paths. If one walks too early as it were, even though the sun is technically up, the night is not over for all nocturnal creatures.

 I can’t guarantee it, but I got the feeling that he or she was headed home, back to a den somewhere after hours of travelling around. This was the physical and psychic impression. We looked at each other and coyote kept going. I sighed but a good sort of sigh, relaxing more then anything into the day. I saw it as an auspicious sign and always found them graceful, interesting, and even magical…

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