The new little foot bridge is painted with fresh red and white stripes. The last flood washed away the 2-plank bridge. This one should be easier to see on a foggy night, if I go back to work after supper.
I cross the creek many times each day, and hoped the stripes would give me a little energy each time I crossed. The bridge has a little bounce. Possibly the stripes will cause a transformation to occur each time I leave my (humble) kitchen and cross to the workshop: housewife to artist.
I'm attracted to bridges. I was married on an old bridge. (It was dismantled a year later--the bridge, not the marriage). Some bridges scare me. (The steep, narrow bridge over the Mississippi at Lansing, Iowa). I miss them when they're gone. (The old 8-span green bridge across the Wisconsin River at Spring Green was replaced this year. I'll never be resigned to the modern highway bridge). When standing on a bridge I like to look upstream, to see what the water is bringing down. A warp coming off the back beam of the loom is like a stream flowing toward me, the future, possibility. The fell is the present, the bridge, where I stand. Downstream, the water under the bridge, is the woven fabric winding on to the front beam, the story of what happened.