Those first green things, so timid in the light and so unafraid of frost, are the bravest souls I know. Before the trees unfurl their leaves they’re there, daring to bloom in the sunlight while it lasts. Before it’s hidden away. One glorious week or two of brilliant life until it fades away, happy, satisfied, willing to wait another year for its time in the sun to come ’round again. I wish I could be half so patient.
Discarded by humans, the old bridge fell back under nature’s control. A brave tree or two took root in pockets of soil blown in by the wind, clinging to tiny cracks with desperate roots. Lichens feasted upon the concrete, crumbling the stonework bit by bit until the roots could grow bolder and stronger as the years went by.
Humans began to stop and look at it in wonder, thinking not of ruins but of the tenacity of nature and the power of patience.
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