By day, a bridge is all about departure and destination, a way

Of getting from place to place:

We focus on the ends as if they were the whole point, as if

The middle span was mere

Afterthought and not the central reason for being. We think

Perhaps of the view visible

As we speed our way across, some water usually and perhaps

A boat or two, the kind

Of thing we don’t tend to see so much in the city. Then we focus

Again on our objective,

Where we are headed to, the grand goal of the journey, but not

The journey itself.

But the thing about a bridge is precisely its bridgeness, its span,

Its willingness to stretch

Itself from here to there for our benefit. There is an elaborate

Geometry to a bridge,

Squares, triangles, and at dusk the lights become stars, so there is

Astronomy as well,

And the tiny curved moon hangs as if by a grey-blue thread of sky

Underneath the bridge

And above the setting sun as it blushes the horizon, to remind us

To pause up there

And just be in the in-between space, neither here nor there, but

Content like stars.