The Concrete Equinox

Rust creeps across the fire escapes, not from rain, but the slow amber of a sun pulling its shadow-tide back from the brickwork.

The pigeons are heavier now, weighted with the grey light of March, their throats iridescent as oil slicks pooling in the gutters of 5th and Main.

Between the skyscrapers, a draft smelling of damp earth and old exhaust whispers of a thaw buried deep under the frost-cracked asphalt.

We walk with unbuttoned coats, tethered to the first thin heat, watching the city exhale its winter in a single, shuddering breath.