Gray clouds part as I drive across the river, which is smooth and still. The familiar monuments rise in the foreground. It’s early morning and already cars are jockeying for the center lane on Constitution, the only lane I trust to take me where I want to go.

Entering the city above ground I’m suddenly aware of its heft, its stone edifices, the Corinthian columns of the National Archives Building. The trees that grow beside it, the rich old magnolias and oaks — they seem a construct too. And the words carved on its pediment, Archives of the United States of America, look ancient and proud.

For some reason (the hour? the light? the mood?), these words of Shelley’s “Ozymandias” come to mind:

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Photo: Wikipedia