The Georgetown Bridge has buried its face in the Apple River. Down from the gravel of the Georgetown Road the rough planks twist and sway. They wind a path over empty pastureland, into the water's swirl, and disappear in darkness, caught in river bottom's grip. The iron railings and supports are wrapped in funereal wilted grass, green cornstalks already beginning their brown barrenness, and tree branches that joined the bullying mass. The limestone pillar mid-river is a lone tower in the rushing water. Green grasses blow from its rocky recesses and a swallow darts in and away from its stones, glances for a quick morsel here, and there: an easy day, a normal day of foraging.
The abandoned goose nest has been swept off the top of the pillar. Next year this bridge's pair will urge and rue their first goslings' spread wings. The goose will brood undisturbed by walker or pick-up, jogger or tractor lament. The goslings will break out, receive uninterrupted nourishment, and venture from the nest accompanied only by gander warnings, shadows of swallow and red-wing, watery callings.
On the far bank, just downstream of the fallen bridge, an enormous cottonwood is laid out, resting from its rush of the bridge, pushed by gathering waters to carry that lofty flier off its rocky pier. The tree is stripped of small branches and green leaves, only its deeply ridged skeleton remains, its upper limbs five gnarly fingers crawling over the muddy bank and dipping into water's edge.
Weep for this hundred-year-old bridge, for the hundreds of crossings we have made, will make no longer. Hear the planks' clicks, the quick squeaks and deep clattering of its iron body, weary of wind and waters, sun and ice, as we pad across its boards. In thick frost, we place each foot deliberately on the coated wood. When the valley is filled with fog, the river clucks to us; we tread in blindness over the smooth planks. In summer we swim the thick air, corn and soy respiration slick on our skin; we stop mid-stream and watch the slow-flowing water, look for swimmers hiding under dark banks. When the dried cornstalks' cacophonous opera is cut off in late autumn, a yellow coyote stands motionless in the stubble, eying us, all of us nervous.
We are stranded now, unable to cross out of our country and into that other where river gathers swift and kingfisher, coon and coyote, where oak emperor reigns, whispering amid the windrows.
