The Slant Bridge

Once an early morn I saw a slant bridge,
the whispers of rivulets that echo
and narrow at the top, like a lone ridge

in some far distance of silent meadows;
merely waiting for the foghorn to sound,
hops a rabbit that lives in a mucky burrow;

and what honey blooms from plots of the ground;
thereon coarse wings buzz like crowded hives,
where a sleepless owl and each dimple frowned;

in a current ocean, waves of a tide
can be heard like the stone in an early sky.