If Brandenburg is a stage, then this is the moment when the curtain doesn't fall, but rises – slowly, almost reluctantly – revealing a scene so simple that it eludes any excitement. The bridge over the Kienitz Waterway isn't a postcard motif, a selfie hotspot. It's a pause. A spot in the space where the horizon takes a little more time.
The sign: "30t – Cyclists dismount." So German, so determined, that you almost think the Brandenburg sky is about to briefly stiffen to salute. But the wind remains casual, blowing through the poplars as if it has more important things to do.
And below: the waterway. A tranquil slice through the fields, just wide enough to reflect the sky, but narrow enough not to boast. Those who stand here don't look, they listen. To the dragonflies, to the grass, to the expansive, wind-borne sound of this landscape. Maybe even on themselves.
No spectacle, no roar. Just a narrow railing, green, stretching through the day, as if to say: Nothing ends here. Here, everything continues. Slower, perhaps, but clearer. Those who pause here understand: Even the quiet river can carry.