The rutted road wound down, through the old town, Carpeted with leaves of red, gold and brown. By a rushing stream, He reined in his team, Knowing he must take the long way around. To his horse, he muttered, “Git along, Midge,” And turned the wagon to climb the west ridge. When the old buckboard Found no place to ford, He vowed that someday he would build a bridge. At a town meeting, he voiced his concern, And others agreed, as each took their turn. “But what do we know?” Asked councilman Stowe, “About bridges, we have a lot to learn.” From Boston, they hired an engineer, With whom bridge construction was a career. He picked a good site, And worked day and night. Putting on a roof was his idea. “It will preserve the wood planking,” he said, “For rain and snow, the shingled roof will shed.” He started this trend, And there was no end Of covered bridges, often painted red. Today, covered bridges are sort of rare, All being attractions at which folks stare. They walk across slow, With water below, For most covered bridges now need repair. © By RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com)