The quiet language of old bridges

Just spent two hours tracing the thermal expansion joints on a 1923 truss bridge near the river. The steel’s been singing for decades—tiny creaks at dawn, a low groan when the sun hits the west side. I used to panic about these sounds. Now I listen like I’m reading someone’s handwriting in a letter they never sent. It’s not about fixing what’s broken. It’s about remembering how things speak when no one’s listening.