Cressey Bridge I rise and whisper out into spring-morning sun flexing in the shadows through the trees and a thought surfaces to solo a country drive and the thought flowers alive: I head out in ivory war pony down Santa Fe Road saluted by aging peach orchards and sober vineyards, veer right into Cressey wind down a little hill, and there to welcome half-century aged eyes An ill surprise: I’ll be damned the ol’ Cressey bridge rusted and riveted spirited with memories is gone, the one that moaned when passersby drove over, the one uncle Rudy took us boys to fish under gone, the one we teens like geese flocked to swinging off thick rope grafted to a grandpa oak splashing like skipping stones into summer’s cool belly of laughing Merced River gone, the one we partied at when thoughts of tomorrow never dripped from our lips gone, the one when storms of life blew our way mourning there hiding the rain bleeding from our eyes gone, the one we loved at sweating in sweet nectars of our unpicked cherries the ol’ Cressey bridge is gone .