A great swath of dark, an ignored runoff, the neglected space we have learned not to see. What a waste — no obstruction is without opportunity. We weave the tapestry back together with a bridge here, and one downstream just beyond sight.
What is the least we can build? This is shared money, pressed thin by pride and politics. But what is given? Is there strength in this collective ownership over a piece of infrastructure, an object that holds disparate parts together?
All who stand above or below it stand on equal ground. Nobody has status or authority under a bridge. Masks slip in the shadow of the great arch. Only the dim moonlight shimmering on the waves and a single grimy fluorescent tube with its cigarette-orange glow let us see that there is no status here. There is nowhere else to be, and so we are here.