i turn and see
my bulldog sitting
in the middle
of the rough-hewn
wooden bridge
i have just crossed

the pleasant sunshine
from his face
this mostly leafless
april afternoon
he sniffs the air

i call his name
but he just sits
and sniffs again
his posture somehow
telling me a tale
of deep contentment

so I return
across the bridge
just walking past him
to the side
i started on
“should we head back?”

but still he sits
and sniffs and smiles
and seems to say
you really haven’t
given this here bridge
an honest shot

and so i shrug
and join him there
between two options
in the middle where
we watch the twigs
float slowly by

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