The Concrete Canopy

Roots push against the fractured stone, a silent argument with the paving, drawing ancient water from forgotten pipes. The neon bleeds into the fog, but here, the air smells of crushed pine.

Headlights sweep the textured bark, casting erratic shadows on the glass facade. It does not flinch at the siren's howl, nor the hurried footsteps of a thousand strangers. It stands as an anchor in the rushing tide.

In autumn, it drops rusted leaves upon the hoods of idle cabs. A quiet reminder of the slower cycles, the seasons that pulse beneath the grid, waiting for the concrete to crumble.