Bridge Inspector

By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 2024

Dawn. The bridge still sleeping.

He walks the same path, always north side first,
where winter salt does its quiet work.

Palm against concrete.

There.

Not visible yet. Won’t be for years.

But the tremor travels through stone like gossip through small towns.

A hairline prophecy.

He’s learned this grammar—
how concrete screams before it whispers,
how rust blooms in patterns that mirror the weight above.

The instruments say sound.

His hands say three winters left, maybe four.

Under the expansion joint,
spider web fractures spreading
like a map of every truck too heavy, every winter too long.

He marks it with yellow paint.

Code that means “watch.” Not “repair.” Not yet.

The bridge is still having a conversation with time.

Best ones tell you when they’re ready.

This one’s steel hums different in wind,
carries stories of the river it’s watched sixty years.

New inspector with him today.

Fresh from school, tablet ready, laser measures.

“Where do I start?”

He points to pigeons nested under the beam.

“See where they won’t build? That’s where you look first.”

The kid takes notes. Misses the lesson—
trust the ones who live here. They know which homes will hold.

Drive back. The apprentice asks about the yellow mark.

“When will it fail?”

“When it’s ready.”

Sees the frustration. Remembers his own need
for numbers, dates, certainty.

“Three winters,” he says finally. “Maybe four.
The bridge will tell us.”

At home he sketches what he felt, not what he saw.

The structure’s slow conversation with gravity.

How it holds its breath in the cold.

How it dreams of letting go.