When the Tuross River rises it sucks at the undersides of the timbers of the old bridge.
Confused vegetation and stiff-legged, waterlogged cattle wash out of low paddocks where the fences are down. They lodge in the crossbeams of the timber trestle. The detritus of the countryside eventually sidles past the trusses. Away.
The knobbly rivets studding the gray decking groan and the memory of the wood is stretched and warped.
A good flood punctuates life in Widget in a wet year.
In a dry year the locals just drink after work and drive home blind above the brown waters.