“Mist or pollution?” I ask
crossing the murky morning bridge.
My friend shrugs. “Both.”
Cross the bridge or not – we’re a part of it.
Surrounded by it. Inhaling it.
Everyday the same crossing,
misted and obscured.
The students ahead disappear.
Mask up or change your routine.
Why the trepidation?
It’s a part of you all the same.
The motions. The breaths in and out.
This crossing and the rituals before and after.
Cross the bridge – You already have
put feet all over it and joined the mist.
“Too early for all that,” she says
reading my mind. “Cross or not,
you’ve crossed it all the same.”
AJG
Some thoughts while crossing the bridge to class in the morning.