The cold wind rattles bridge like a set of chains, shaking loose the rust down onto the quiet surface of the water, as if both the bridge and the trees needed to discard their leaves, with swallows dancing one last dance before vanishing -- they disliking the ice and snow as much as I do, leaving the ducks and gulls and geese to take up habitation in the rusted eves.
This early in the morning before rush hour traffic comes to make the bridge groan, I hear music played in those rattles, sad songs that seem to mellow me as I walk between jogs, and make my way over to the other side for the long jog home.
Each morning, I want to sing along. But I don't know the words or the tune.
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