Bridging

Bridging the gap, flowing over an under flowing water, spilling, gushing and yawning violence underneath. I prayed the ropes would hold, knew that no one heard: man's faith in things man made. I trod carefully, the wood was wet and slimed to my booted foot turning solid into something rotten, decayed like compost. Above, a hawk took flight and sailed imperiously gathering the wind harvesting each gust with its arc. I'm sure fish navigated lower passageways with finesse in the tumbling brown cold bubbling beneath me, freezing but boiling seeming. Yet here, hands white, grasping, I held the rope, feet seemed like toddlers' brand new walking as my knees tightened and my heart stood still. That's risk and fleeting, that's whole and perfect nearing death was to be alive.