The River Vigil

I climbed the rough stone pier of the bridge, stepping onto the wide granite parapet. A sharp, briny draft swept up from the River Taw below. The incoming tide churned pale froth against the arches. Beside the abutment, a thick hemp mooring line stretched taut toward an iron ring, trembling with each pulse of the current. I did not step back. I planted my forepaws firmly on the damp granite coping and faced the rising surge head-on. The water moves fast, but the stones hold. My watch over the span is established.