Spanning the River

I've spanned these banks for many years, made evident in the rusty tin adorning my roof My sides are scarred , colors been stripped from angry storms through hundreds of seasons. My river bed ran dry back in late October then Winter snows frosted my planks but I was still fit for anyone crossing over from one side to the other of the Kanawha River. Come Spring, rushing water will flow under me splashing over rocks as it rushes to the sea. Bird droppings will build along each window sill when nest-building robins arrive in flocks. People walk across my wooden floor some hesitate before taking each step for my trusses tend to creak now and then and I swell in places; curses of growing old. I've been crossed by deer, hoofed by cows, wheeled over by bicycle's and horse-drawn buggies. They were all kinder than the smelly fumes spread by those disrespectful autos that never slow down. My weathered brows face North and South making me a tunnel for bold Nor'easters that swiftly tear through me and chip my paint. I like to think it enhances my pastoral character. I might be 'rickety,' but if you call me 'shabby' that rumbling you hear will be me grumbling. I'm proud of the state I'm in, physically sound and geographically, two miles outside of town. As long as I can stand on my supporting piers I'll relive memories made beneath my roof. A covered bridge spans more than the waters of the gentle river where life flows free beneath me. August 25, 2017