Rust and River

The smokestacks stand like hollow fingers, pointing accusingly at the heavy grey sky, while the river below churns thick and sullen, carrying the memory of a hundred loud years.

Iron bridges ache in the damp morning air, their rivets crying out in slow, orange tears, as the ghosts of split shifts and whistle blasts fade into the hum of the encroaching woods.

Nature reclaims the cracked concrete floors, sprouting defiant green through the soot, a quiet rebellion against the vanished fires, breathing life back into the cooling ash.