Fishing under the Valley Bridge,
where I’ll take my son today,
beneath the old wooden structure,
in shadows our rods will prey.
The dusty road down the canyon,
was very steep and full of turns,
but didn’t stop our excitement,
nor did burden our return.
Village secret, ancient wonder,
monolith of sturdy fame,
big wide arches on either end,
Roman middle was its claim.
Aqueduct of Segovia,
in brilliance before us stood,
with seventy-two small arches,
double stacked and made of wood.
In the early morning sunrise,
twilight in Northern Cali,
that furnished our bridge in shadow,
and hushed a sleeping valley.
A train whistle breached the distance,
from up north near the quarry,
I then turned to my son and said,
“I’d like to tell you a story.”
We sat down near the rivers edge,
to watch the oncoming train,
its smoke rose over the mountain,
its weight already a strain.
I began to tell the tale,
that my father told to me,
passed down to each generation,
since our store had come to be.
It began with bridge construction,
horse and buggy ruled the day,
the towns were being connected,
by sched-ule without delay.
The owners were in a hurry,
seems progress wouldn’t be stopped,
the bridge was to be completed,
so they worked around the clock.
The iron horse was there early,
its giant size widened eyes,
packed up in the cars that followed,
large bank vault, and town supplies.
The railway owner, livid,
emerged, from special caboose,
“What’s the delay now conductor?”
he groaned like a bullish moose.
“Well, the bridge is not completed,
we’ll have to wait a while”,
spit the tobacco assistant,
to his boss so full of guile.
“This train is to move by sundown!
and that’s all the time you’ve got”,
the heritor slammed his door shut,
spooked horses now distraught.
The town gathered at the station,
waving flags and cheering on,
then in a thunderous moment,
the train was up and gone.
The bridge crew were almost finished,
when sun set that afternoon,
the iron track wasn’t ready,
and the train left way too soon.
The valley drop was steep and sharp,
gave accelerated speed,
river below drowned out the sound,
no warning for them to heed.
Brakes engaged like screeching nails,
the thunder heard was numbing,
focused on the tracks ahead,
they just never saw it coming.
Years had passed with village mourning,
when bridge was propped and finished,
each arch was engraved with a name,
their essence never diminished.
It is said that when the sun sets,
and angel rays touch that bridge,
you can see their moving figures,
to the right there on the ridge.
Your great grand dad was there that day,
just opened the family store,
saved his money from rail camps,
and laboured with sledge no more.
