I am a steel joist way up high in a building in New York. Now I am hidden, but I was snapped as I swung through the air many years ago. That photograph is part of the history of my country now.
When the storms howl past in the winters I hear the creaking and groaning in the upper stories of this building. I shift slightly and flex.
In the hot summers I heat up and expand with the others, just a bit, just enough to acknowledge nature and the seasons.
I cannot see into my future. When will I relax into a molten furnace again and become my next selves? I must wait and just be myself until change carries me elsewhere.
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