"At Walberswick" by Sylvan Boxsius

The hardest part is going up hill, especially while carrying a heavy load. If I know that with every step I come closer to an apex and the relief of descent, it's easier to trudge along at a steady pace. Such luxury is only possible when I tread on already familiar paths.

It's a still and almost soundless day. The sun rays filtered through a blue-grey atmosphere has turned the landscape every shade of pastel. The water moves, but barely, and in a short, steady but slow rhythm.

The beams that hold up the bridge are like legs. Legs of some great beast about to walk off, inadvertently carrying me with him on his arched back. What would I do in the case of such unexpected adventure? Drop my buckets and cling fearfully to the side rail until the ride is over? Laugh with giddy relief and stamp my feet to prod the beast to giddy-up faster? Or maybe I'd just keep trudging forward, head down, and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary has happened, or ever will.