I'm sitting here this morning, curious about the prehistoric engineers who made the first bridge. More than likely, they got the idea from Mother Nature. She dropped a big old tree across some kind of a gap, and the bridge was born.
Our small town hosts a river and a creek. We host three new bridges, one on the north side, one on the south side, and one on the east. We cross one or more of them every day when we leave town and when we return home.
Sad to say, a time will come when a modern-day architect and engineer will knock their heads together and declare this bridge outdated and no longer useful. It's beauty won't matter anymore. A set of blueprints will determine what type of concrete plan will take its place.
Like it or not, we all must face the constant change and progression from one generation to the next. As we do, let's at least pay due honor to the structures that let us peek into the past. Perpetuate them by taking pictures, cross them with dignity, and stop to take a really good look at them. They might be made of iron, but it sort of feels like beautiful souls were somehow spiritually built in them.