Iron and Moss

The steel ribs of the overpass catch the late afternoon sun, a hollow cathedral for the commuting ghost, where shadows stretch long across fractured concrete.

Here the wild things creep back, green fingers prying at the mortar, a slow erasure of human urgency measured in the quiet bloom of lichen.

We built temples to speed and distance, forgetting the patient arithmetic of roots, how easily the earth swallows our monuments and breathes the silence back into the sky.