The forest belongs only to itself. This is never more apparent than at dusk as one journeys along the path, light fading, birds silent but watchful. Down near the stream, running low and quiet in the height of summer, even the wind cannot reach-no leaves rustle or branch quivers. She is careful not to set one toe off the gravel and onto the forest's floor-it is too close to the solstice and too late to call it day. There are three bridges between her and home, only two she must cross in the twilight murk and heavy dusk, but she is intimidated nonetheless. Simple wooden constructs, they and the path are the only signs of humanity in the darkening woods. A bridge is a place of neither here nor there, and such places can be full of mischief. In the right place a bridge can link people, ideas and art flowing as easily as trade, or armies to a battlefield. In the wrong place, for humans, a bridge becomes a gateway between the worlds, and a single step all that separates one from here and there.
Happy Summer Solstice!