Bridge Oasis

Came to a wooden bridge,

nothing to do on a lazy Saturday.

Could see the bridge with dirt upon it

and where it had stood resisting the fray.



So I walked halfway across 

and felt the rumble below.

Without a doubt, I am sure,

it has felt the creek's woe.



The tangled mess of trees I see

had been pushed along, I know.

So strong, this bridge has stood

so strong against the flow.



The strong silent bridge,

not even noticed for its function.

Our thoughts are always elsewhere,

when we reach it's junction.



The farmer thinks of his crops

the deer thinks of his meal.

The hunter about the deer that crossed

and me the time I'm about to steal.



So I sit on the edge of the bridge looking down,

for once I've no where to go.

Watching the creek flow by, murky and brown,

I still enjoy the show.



Quite a while I sit,

if I could sit all day, I would.

Though I'm pulled to reality by thoughts of dinner,

and that I had better make something good.



So I get prepared to leave my oasis

of thought and calm and beauty.

I know that I can always come back,

but I still leave wholely reluctently.