Just before you get to the bridge,
where the river spills over the rocks
and begins to turn smooth again,
and the bank is lined with willows -
that would be a good place to stop,
and rein in the horse, and sit there
for a minute or two, listening
to the crickets and the bullfrogs.
You could look out at the fireflies
on the far shore, their movements
through the trees indistinguishable
from their reflections on the water.
With a nudge, the horse would start
onto the planks. As though your need
to cross had been acknowledged,
the old timbers would begin to sway.
Ahead, in the dark, there would be
birds fluttering among the rafters,
and all the night creatures calling,
and the river flowing beneath you.
First published in Tipton Poetry Journal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem