The water rushes fifty feet below,
rocky rapids rolling down the slope.
Vines, bushes and trees, a carpet of green,
lining both edges of the river.
An unforgiving wilderness echoes
with the sounds of a million living things.
A squeak, a chirp, a croak, a growl,
a hiss, a screech, a grunt, a howl.
Standing, the only proof that man had once
set foot in this quiet womb,
is the tall stone sentinel, urging you to walk across,
with various colors of creepers peeking
through the age old cracks.
A color faded pink and tarnished black,
once was bright red sandstone.
And the sudden end to one part of the bridge,
with naught but air to cover the distance between it and its brother,
tells the tale of the bloodstained rocks below,
now washed clean by the speeding river.


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