At a brisk pace it takes one minute fifty five seconds to cross the bridge. In that time, one is suspended over a water system traversing from mountain to lake. The energy of such urgency rushes into the ears, carving out space below, inviting a sense of travel and purpose, yet the bridge demands a perpendicular pathway. The boards of each plank align with the flow of the river linear and straight once, now worn and warped. The life of each plank now dormant underneath feet and tires. Does each plank come from a different tree? Or does the bridge represent the life of only a few trees sliced and splayed side by side? Seeds, branches, mud soak in the morning puddles. Smeared into the bridge with deliberate pressure from the sole of the shoe. Reflections of cable and structure mirage through pools of water. And in an abrupt moment, I’m returned to pavement, solid ground, crosswalks and timelines, no longer suspended.