The Arch of Moss

The stone spine bows over sluggish water, wearing a heavy coat of velvet green where generations of rain have settled into sleep.

A heron stands in the shadow of the curve, still as the mortar crumbling between the blocks, watching the slow parade of fallen leaves pass by.

We measure time in the wearing down of things, but the river only knows the shape it carves, and the bridge only knows the weight it holds.