The Concrete Pulse

The iron bridge hums a low, rusted C, vibrating with the ghost-weight of long-gone rails. Ivy climbs the soot-stained pylon, fingers of green reaching for the sky's dull grey.

A cracked sidewalk becomes a miniature canyon where moss-forests thrive in the humid shade. The rain here tastes of copper and old limestone, washing the dust from the glass eyes of vacant towers.

Time is a slow water-leak in the basement of the world, eroding the hard lines we drew in the dirt. Everything turns back to the tilt of the earth, as the wild returns, soft-footed and persistent.