Hymn of Ripples

The bridge waits in a hush of amber light,

its planks warm from a day nearly gone.

Above, a single lantern sways,

its faint glow already part of twilight.

Beneath, the water moves without hurry—

a slow hymn of ripples

gilded by the sun’s last brush of fire.

Each swirl carries the soft scent of evening.

No footsteps touch the planks.

No voice calls across the banks.

Only the lantern’s gentle flicker

and the murmur of the stream.

The bridge does not measure time.

It simply holds the space

where day bows to night,

and the peaceful water keeps its quiet song.