Crossing a swinging bridge
over the gorge—

that's what it feels like,
every tree you see

far away, untouchable,  
one indistinguishable from the other.

Where to rest your eyes,
though not for long,

this brevity of wishing
for more ground and less air.

Someplace to land,
pulling something close,

pushing something away.
The tender balance,

what belongs, what used to belong,
what glimmers like water,

what stands out—leaves
losing their color early

or sunlight on painted rails.
The child in front of you

runs without fear, older than you 
the first time you were here.

Wind blows in your face,
blows above you and below.