rollicking Steel

I'm sitting directly under the Williamsburg Bridge, overlooking the East River. It's not particularly beautiful, nor majestic, nor breathtaking. It is, however, a spot of shade. There's a cool breeze rippling the pages of my book, and behind me is a foiled candy bar wrapper, stuffed between the grated fence wire. Litter. 

I'm reminded of Mark Helprin's words in Winter's Tale, though:

Mootfowl glared at him. "A bridge," he proclaimed, "is a very special thing. Haven't you seen how delicate they are in relation to their size? They soar like birds; they extend and embody our finest efforts; and they utilize the curve of heaven. When a catenary of steel a mile long is hung in the clear over a river, believe me, God knows. Being a churchman, I would go as far as to say that the catenary, this marvelous graceful thing, this joy of physics, this perfect balance between rebellion and obedience, is God's own signature on earth. I think it pleases Him to see them raised. I think that is why the city is so rich in events. The whole island, you see, is becoming a cathedral."

"Does that leave out the Bronx?" someone asked.  

 "Yes," Mootfowl replied.

Shawn Li