I've stood on this footbridge many times. It has a name, Bouchard's Bridge, and it crosses the shallow water of Beaver Brook in a place where the beavers have engineered a dam, turning running water into a standing pond. Look down from the rail and you can see the muddy bottom under tea colored water no deeper than the reach of an arm.
Tall marsh grasses rustle in the breeze and beyond them, the steeple tops of maples, pines, and oaks mark the edges of forest.
I've crossed the bridge in all seasons. In winter, on skis, when the snow is thigh deep and paints the world a blustery brilliant white. In early spring, where a delicat layer of ice covers the water like museum glass. In the heat of summer with iridescent winged dragonflies buzzing the water surface. And in the fall, perhaps the most beautiful time here in northern New England, when the trees show off flame reds and brilliant yellow against a peerless blue sky.
Sometimes, I'll admit, I've made the crossing without stopping to admire the view, more concerned with the thoughts in my head and with checking off 'exercise' from my to do list. This time, though, I did stop and I did notice--my shadow floating like an alien in the water.
I took out my phone, causing my husband, who was walking with me, to ask what I was doing. Phone service in the middle of the woods is spotty at best. And, anyway, who would I call mid hike?
"I'm taking a selfie," I told him.
I"m not a fan of self photography. The idea of taking your own picture seems silly and maybe a bit self-involved to my mind. But there, just then, on the bridge I'd crossed more times than I could count, my shadow called me to take notice. Maybe in snapping a picture I hoped to keep a small strange part of me afloat.
So here it is, my first ever selfie; a shadow, a floating impression, already a memory in reflection.
Tall marsh grasses rustle in the breeze and beyond them, the steeple tops of maples, pines, and oaks mark the edges of forest.
I've crossed the bridge in all seasons. In winter, on skis, when the snow is thigh deep and paints the world a blustery brilliant white. In early spring, where a delicat layer of ice covers the water like museum glass. In the heat of summer with iridescent winged dragonflies buzzing the water surface. And in the fall, perhaps the most beautiful time here in northern New England, when the trees show off flame reds and brilliant yellow against a peerless blue sky.
Sometimes, I'll admit, I've made the crossing without stopping to admire the view, more concerned with the thoughts in my head and with checking off 'exercise' from my to do list. This time, though, I did stop and I did notice--my shadow floating like an alien in the water.
I took out my phone, causing my husband, who was walking with me, to ask what I was doing. Phone service in the middle of the woods is spotty at best. And, anyway, who would I call mid hike?
"I'm taking a selfie," I told him.
I"m not a fan of self photography. The idea of taking your own picture seems silly and maybe a bit self-involved to my mind. But there, just then, on the bridge I'd crossed more times than I could count, my shadow called me to take notice. Maybe in snapping a picture I hoped to keep a small strange part of me afloat.
So here it is, my first ever selfie; a shadow, a floating impression, already a memory in reflection.
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