The bridge is made of wood; old and mossy. Under the bridge, a small stream flows, cool and shallow. You can see the fine blond sand at the bottom. A yellow aspen leaf, edged in red and black and dappled with dark spots floats atop the water. The leaf approaches a smooth sandbar, which divides the stream in two. It seems to sense the division, the dichotomy it faces. It vacillates, hesitant, for a moment. Then, with sweet grace, it surrenders and drifts to the left, contentedly. My heart clinches a little for the leaf, and for all of us. But it does not seem to mind. It continues quietly along the way. It passes beneath my feet, and I turn to see where it will go. The two rivulets join together again, as the sandbar sinks beneath the surface of the stream.
