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the sun was softly smudged in the watercolor sky barely visible. grey clouds collapsed from the days when they held countless individually intricate snowflakes and stretched forth across the pale, blueless sky with a lazy unwillingness, eager for rest. for now, as temperatures crept up, the snow melted gradually like forgiveness, offering huge patches of wildflower remnants and the memories of fragrance poking through. the runoff fed a formidable stream that cut effortlessly through the tired, winter worn grass like an artery in the body of the saturated earth bringing the perpetual hope and unbroken promise of spring. a fragile and lonely wind cried through the skeletal branches of a small copse of bare trees, a song of friendship and longing. their sturdy frames cast shadows on the puckered drifts where the sun could not reach.
this is where they came to enter a world that was theirs. he from the east. she from the west. they gave each other gifts.
together they had meticulously built a small wooden bridge of planks and delicate balusters that spanned the deep, rushing water, crafting a solid, strong structure that enabled them to pass from one world into another and back again.
they painted it red.
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