The bridge is the edge. I don’t cross it.
I step on it, I stand on it,
But I never set my feet
On the other side.

Below me, the water flows:
Comes – and goes.
The snow still holds the dark places
Behind the rock in the frozen stream.
The spring wind rattles the dead leaves
Whisks, tosses - in the water flying.

The birds sing their freedom song
In the stranded sound of the city.
I wonder where the leaves go.
To the sea? If they’re lucky
– they’re free.