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Bridge: noun. To bridge: verb.  The first term implies interrupted space but a way to mend it and make it whole again; the second, that getting over a break means getting across.  I appreciate bridges of all kinds;  I suppose most travelers do, since they make any kind of journeying easier.  But I love them, too.  They bring together yet are themselves liminal, always poised in between.  Stand on one and you hang — to varying degrees of safety — in the midst of rupture. Move along to the other side and, in crossing a divide, you’ve achieved a small miracle of travel.

The day I photographed this Moss Park bridge, I didn’t cross it.  Instead, I stayed to one side, watching lazy river currents carry the occasional duck or carelessly tossed piece of trash downstream.  But as I aimed my camera’s viewfinder towards the bridge, I had an unexpected revelation.  A span across a dirty river became more than what it was. In the last flood of pre-sunset light, it became an illuminated promise.  Cross this and be on your way; cross this and be where you want to go.

Bridges, it seems, even small city bridges like this one, are more than utilitarian spans across interruptions in terrain that are inconvenient, polluted or even dangerous.  They are spaces of perspective — unique to the eye of each beholder — not only on what they cross, but also what they link.


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