Y swings her feet over the edge of the bridge, toes dangling in the water. The currents are cold, and
her heels are red, but it is Indian Summer, and she is alone here. She alternates legs, swingin one out far,
and than the other, hands curled to cup the edge. Her legs move so fast, she sometimes lifts herself
right off the wood, and up in the air, but her arms anchor her, and her legs slow just a bit. She watches
her knees flash before her, and remembers summers on the swings, and muddy springs on her bicycle, and
long afternoons of fishing here with her uncles.