Cross-Currents

Here, the sky holds its breath, a solid plane of teal against which the city draws its hard lines. Great arteries of concrete slice through the air, casting long shadows that the sun cannot erase. An old tree, bare-limbed and patient, traces the memory of a different world against the unnatural light, its branches a stark calligraphy of what was. Nearby, a steel giant stands sentinel, its wires carrying the city's frantic, electric pulse from one glass tower to the next. These are the cross-currents of a new age, where nature is a footnote and the grid is everything.