And Yet I Cross

I arrive at the churning river, with one option. I stare at the jagged rocks below. White water agitates across the gorge. And yet I cross. Forward or to retreat I must. Uncertain I am of the future, distant bank, my knowledge scant of its terrain. And yet I cross. A wooden span held with rusted iron bearing the scars of countless crossings, creaks and voices the sighs of protest. And yet I cross. The opposing shore may offer paradise, bright acres of rich inheritance. Or perhaps consists of a land without shade, possibly a territory desolate and destitute. And yet I cross. In unfamiliar maps I find myself. lost in the forward progress, unwilling to reverse my course, standing at a rushing boundary. And yet I cross.