What distinguished the bridge across the yawning river was its high level of invisibility.

The spans had passed away downstream one flood leaving only the truncated and buttressed supports made from a multitude of stones that threw solid shadows like tombstones yet glowered at the newborn sun.

Each plane bent space.

Ever more water passed over the small rounded rocks in rippled patterns like moving schools.

Some pools held spiralling suds, or stretched pictures of the holy mountains upstream.

The sun burnt its way up the bakelite sky and pushed a torrid wind that made trees cringe, what few there were. People black as old dried blood drove oxcarts past along the only road. They would never rest like us.

The water was shallow and cold. We waded for a quarter mile ‘cross banks of stones and tangles of debri. A dark skinned baby caught amongst the sticks, its skin peeled back with open eyes reflecting blue of sky and circling birds.

Just patterns and arcs; curves, spiraling thermals. Wheels.  Everybody’s circle.

Dust and donkeys.