The Messenger

He comes to the bridge, and the current, he sees,

Is Swollen, uneven, and deep.

He squints at the sun, then down through the trees

In thought (or is it in sleep).


But now there's no time, for he or his ride,

To rest, or even to think.

The covered span still awaits; his horse trots inside.

At the Inn, they'll both have a drink.


Thanks to small blessings, despite heat and haze,

The roof protects from the sun.

The walls hide distractions and focus their eyes

Away from the water's swift run.


Of these too-few seconds, he takes one or two

In the echoing dark of the bridge.

To ponder his his night; what he must now do:

He shivers, then rides to the ridge.