a lark

By the river on Monday morning
under the narrow wood/iron framework
of the one-track bridge

I stood still
as the train rushed over with almost no sky
between the howling shaking commuting load
and my mortal body.
I braced my teeth,
hissed in a breath
and held it.
My whole skin

I stepped out releasing
the held air
and continued my walk, my work —
thin-strung, light-boned,
a kite, a lark.

(First published in Creatrix)