An ancient, rusted padlock bars entry, a fossil from busier days.

The combination has been lost with the men and women who

once tended the grounds. Their kind are gone, replaced by birds

of a million shades and sizes. Those groundling beasts who have

braved the river crossing gaze in, longing after the fruit that falls

around me. They cannot open the lock, so the grounds have

become a sanctuary for birds and myriad bugs.

When the river rose, flooding much of the island and drowning

many of my kin, the foundry was abandoned. The surviving trees

on the other side of the island keep the river at bay and each year

the water recedes, little by little.

Young saplings, planted decades ago, now tower over the river along both banks. The furthest reaches of my roots edge ever closer to their own. When an invasive pest ravaged the nearby parks those young trees on the banks sent out their warnings through our root network and through the air, saving many lives in the process. We hardened ourselves and produced our own pesticides to fight off the insects.

The birds and bugs have taken control of the island. The machines have turned to rust. We set about our work, gradually taking them back for the earth. Much of what has been left on this island will not be reclaimed in my lifetime - the plastics, the metal, the rubber will take a centuries to break down. For now they make fine homes for the birds.