A conniving man swaggers onto the field, sword in hand. The spearman holds his ground. A fight to the death or so I’m told; a swordsman’s demise.

Born in the morning. Married by noon. Children after. Death at sunset. A full life.

The bridge held its ground. Once se was young, shiny and new but now se was part of the landscape. The pressure of unrhythmic footstep messaged ser back. Se felt ser age creep upon ser; cracks spread through ser being. The men of the town fix ser up. The bridge holds its ground.