The moment in which an insect lands is prophetic. Why does the butterfly choose my hand-grip? A fluid question. I stop my bike to get the scale of the question, look it over, snap a picture, relate it to the river over which we have stopped, an elongated confluence of mindful regeneration before the watery confluence of locational regeneration further east where two flow into one. Who is doing the bridging here? Are some of the bridges unseen and only felt? When I came upon a Virginia footbridge made of bamboo, another crossing around a gone-awry bamboo forest, again I asked, who is doing the bridging? Will the bridged flow stop the deep bamboo roots from crossing? It seemed the delineating restoration question, since all other attempts to stop the bamboo from growing out of its boundary had failed. Feet of a young child depressed these and those canes, fraying new ends out of the rope holding that bridge together. When the elder flapped his feet like a duck to the sides starting across & returning, a foot sized patch broke off and the bridge weakened. There is a choice somewhere inside us telling us to bridge or not to bridge. The butterfly moth gave long pause. Which, one or both of the two were being a bridge, and how were they doing it?