A footbridge spanning a gorge a thousand feet deep, a strip of chromium river wrinkling as it shrugs itself out to sea.

The Pacific lolls stark naked with its favorite birds clinging. Inland, the river source tinkles down a far-off mountain slope.

Let’s join the other tourists and browse across the bridge with only casual glances down. Yes, I know you need photos

to prove that this earth-slot exists, but better to buy a postcard than risk the vertigo for which old-timers like us are famous.

Rather than lean over the rail and look down I stare straight west to the aqua sea horizon misting the curve of the planet.

We mustn’t risk falling that far into the open maw of the world. The ocean doesn’t know we’re here, sparking across this little bridge

with its massive overview. The great bulk of water ignores us and goes about its sloppy business, trespassing on our properties

without the slightest taint of motive. I’d better look inland where folded hills look as cozy as fat people after a meal.

You can look anywhere you want, but please keep away from the rails and don’t let the drop to the bottom maim everything we stand for.