Troll

The bridge took the step before the troll did. A long arm came out of the dark under the span, wet stone on the knuckles, the old toll of the crossing. No one bargained well. People who made the far bank carried a troll gift in the knees, the shake of having paid. It returns in troll playing cards that feel damp at the edge, in a troll notebook opened only after the water is behind you, in a troll postcard of the arm and the black gap under the boards. The road goes on. The under-dark does not.