In the middle of this square an old tree sits, bare and vulnerable. Its branches are like forks and handles, like the webbed veins of a bloodshot eye. They are vast and scattered.

Waiting for the light to turn, his mind wandered, wondering how it was that bridges of this sort collected stories. Old thru truss bridges with grated deckings, or any older bridge for that matter. The stories seemed to have died out since the concrete