I think and write a lot about water. As a child, I lived out the warm days on lakes and bayous and any watering hole. The attraction was strong and yet, I retained a great fear of such places. Water meant sink holes, snakes, and sorted old tales about someone who drown, stories punctuated with words like foolishness and risky and wild. These tales played out even while swimming. Often bridges came into play. Old bridges. My friends and I walked them, out in the middle of nowhere, across waters that would have reached up and took our lives with a cold smile. Bridges like this one where old men fish bass for their supper.
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Comments go to email for approval. I only check once a week. Thank you, Jane.