Race with the Stream

I left the quiet house behind, following the cracked sidewalk past the corner until the path opened into the neighborhood park. Near the willow trees, a low wooden footbridge arched over a shallow, rippling creek. I picked up a dry birch twig from the dirt, gripped it tight, and stepped onto the weathered timber planks. At the upstream railing, I slipped the stick through the wooden spindles and let it drop into the water with a faint splash. I turned and dashed across the bridge, dropping onto my knees at the opposite edge. Peering beneath the bottom rail, I watched the twig drift out from the bridge's shadow, bobbing steadily downstream into the sunlight.