When I was a child,
      for a time,
 the bridge was out.

They were replacing the rusty
      iron trestle bridge
 with a thick-slab concrete 
  monstrosity.

I could go down to the river,
      and I could see the 
       scarred and marred
         construction site,
  & the big yellow machines
       that sat dormant on the weekends.

But one couldn't cross the river --
      not unless one was willing to get wet, 
       and was a better swimmer than I 
        (and it was autumn & the water cold.) 

It was a strong current that swept 
       along between two steep banks. 

It was not a great distance,
       nor were they violent waters.

But that brown water moved with 
       such smooth swiftness.

I dream about the time the bridge was out,
       now & again,
        and wonder what it was
         about those weeks
          that still has meaning to my mind.