Water Under the Bridge

The ground I tread feels like home.

The path I walk winds down a long hill. The snow crunches under my feet, packed firm by the occasional snowmobile, or brave explorer in a warm four-wheel drive. The sign at the top reads, “No Winter Maintenance”. I like it that way. So do the kids – it’s perfect for sledding.

The road leads down to a small stream spanned by a single-lane bridge. It’s not a large bridge – it needn’t be; it is not heavily traveled. But it has endured for generations; its sturdy elegant arch formed with the same field stone unearthed from the soil of the surrounding farmland…and by the same hands.

When I’m alone I often pause on that bridge. I like to stand silent, watching the water surge steadily towards me, tumbling carelessly over the rocks, plunging fearlessly under the ice, cutting sharply around, over or through fallen branches and downed trees, seemingly impervious to any and all obstacles in its path.

My blood turned the fertile soil of this ground I now tread. My blood woke before dawn in the icy grasp of winter, stoking the fires with wood hewn from trees whose roots grew deep into the ground I now tread. My blood hunted game in the rich forests of the ground I now tread. My blood walked the icy banks of this little stream, checking traps for mink, muskrat, fox and other furs, dependent on the life sustaining power of the ground I now tread.

My blood built a home on this ground I now tread.

My blood spilled their blood on this ground I now tread.

How thick now runs my blood! How deep grow my roots into the ground I now tread!

I watch the waters disappear under the bridge, quietly emerging on the other side, and silently, yet steadfastly slipping into the distance.

Endless yet undaunted; ever moving forward. Pressing on. Pressing on.