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The Bridge
The transition from winter into spring
is not as simple as crossing an arching
bridge to a tranquil pond of water lilies.
It is a story told to us by cats who self-
ishly seize the warming sun's rays and
drape themselves in languid fluid poses.
Cats smell the air seeping through a
tightly closed window. The odor of wet
cardboard and spongy brown moss signals
the time to begin the prowling hunting
dance.
A pink flowered pond shrouded in weep-
ing willows is a lush secret sanctuary.
Real spring is a paint by number picture.
The first hues of green overlap edges of
dull brown and slate gray, the finishing
delayed by our longing. The bridge taking
us there exists only in our anticipation.
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