This Bridge.

Sometimes the wind blows from the east.

When it does it can last for days, or hours.

Sometimes - after - the clouds begin to mass.

When they do, they can, if they want leave me alone.

Sometimes they don’t - clouds are inconsistent things.

When they don’t they usually gather to the north, huddling over the slopes that lead to the Massif, not far.

When they do they, they seem to be in secret conversation.

Others might join them and, if the first can recruit enough others of their kind, they might break into rain.

When this happens, I do not see this rain, though I may smell her presence.

That rain will fall, freshening forest and street alike.

Some will be absorbed to quench dry thirst but much will flow, through valley or gutter.

Down.

Down.

Sometimes underground, carrying memory and maybe regret.

Until it reaches this river.

That flows beneath this bridge and leaves me for a sea, distant.

It’s a good place to sit, and I often do.

There are fish that wait here too.

I’m not sure why.