For a quiet moment the bridge stands empty, its stone untouched by curious little fingers, its moss unpicked. Shadows flit between the trees, and faint echoes carry chatter through the scented air. It is a warm spring afternoon. The forest park is full of joggers and dog-walkers and picnicers. But for now the bridge stands empty. Under its arch, black water creeps along like a marble glacier, carrying a sprinkling of pine needles south towards a deep black lake. Overhead, sunlight strikes the vibrant canopy and seems to hang there, trapped and effervescing.