The bridge waits in the hush of evening,
its wooden planks steeped in the scent of river mist.
Below, the stream slides like slow glass,
gathering the last embers of the sun.
Amber light settles on each ripple,
turning water to liquid dusk.
The sky burns soft with fading fire,
a hush between day and night.
No footsteps echo, no voices call.
Only the quiet pulse of current against stone,
the small creak of timber cooling in the breeze.
The bridge does not cross; it simply rests—
a gentle arc between banks,
between light and shadow,
holding the moment where everything is enough.
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