The old covered bridges are rare now, but loved
and cared for with a nostalgia-laced reverence.
When you walk through one, you can almost hear
the sound of horse hooves and wagon wheels
echoing up from the worn wooden floor. You imagine
the horses, the travelers, leaning into a moment of relief
from the sun’s glare, from the rain, from the sleet and snow.
Even the horse feels it. The windows are cut high to shield
the rushing river from the horse’s view. Only his ears and nose
tell him what lies beneath the solid planks beneath his hooves.
He is unafraid. He never loses his rhythm.
You know this just by walking through the bridge.
It holds its memories well and whispers them unceasingly
to lucky passersby, and to the river.