we were at that long suspended walking bridge across the nape of the valley. we walked out onto it and into the wind, which cracked the mesh plates beneath our feet and rippled our wet shirts across our backs.  foliage shook below, that wind coming in from the straits, from the sea, pushed up away from the hot land, disturbing what it could of the surface of filaments and moving on, unable to get close or make anything cool but the tips of the leaves and the cracking mesh plates, steel and flexible to the pressures of the whole, and us, our wet backs. A crashing in the branches below; macaques.

at the half-way point the gates at the far end became visible. still closed, locked. we waited, cast around for signs; far below an assistant appeared and began gesturing. there was a delay. some business had not been resolved at the beginning of the bridge; the gates would not be opened at the end. it was signalled to us that we were to wait. the staff could not solve this today; they were going home. maybe other staff would be sent to sort things out.

the sky softened. the trees below us turned from brilliant green to a gentle grey. we leaned against the balustrades, we wandered back and forth - back towards the northern entry, now locked too; back towards the south. the wind picked up and the bridge took on a slight sway. we gazed, and eventually we sat down on the mesh plates in the swaying. we placed our heads upon each others' bony shoulders and we waited.