An echo of freedom sings across the open moor, carried on petulant breezes. It calls with the promise of wild wet steps. It holds its dim lantern aloft, this will-o-wisp.
The manacles and noose whisper their securities, into every ear. The support of tight spaces cannot be doubted; short spans need no trusses. Just lay the boards across from bank to bank in parallel with the others, or better yet, join the queue at the covered bridge.
The traveler believes there is a Golden Mean: somewhere, out there, exists an honest in-between.
I will probably drown in the swamp, but ‘til then, one might dream.
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