The Quiet Rust

The iron spine of the old bridge flakes into a copper dust, settling softly on the moss below like a breath released at twilight.

Gears that once turned the river's rush now sleep in a tangle of vines, their teeth worn smooth by the slow and silent grinding of the years.

No whistles call the morning in, only the hollow wind through the beams, a song of things returning to the earth, undone by the patience of rain.