The Concrete Jungle
The concrete jungle wakes to rays of the sun. Panes of glass play with eastern light. Towers of brick, cement, and stucco rise above urban citrus trees to glimpse the stirring towns.
Traffic pours in, traffic pours out, and cars line up like glistening ants. Vehicular networks like brain neurons branch outward and inward, a mass transit of information, knowledge, and progress.
Street corner cafés with striped awnings overhead, and bistro seats on sidewalks fill with loyal patrons. A man in a suit takes his coffee with cream, no sugar, and resists an apricot turnover. The woman with a backpack, chai tea every Tuesday, sits at the window.
Midday heat ripples across the asphalt and trucks scatter in the neighborhoods, smelling of cinnamon, peppers, and sizzling onions. All claim to have the city’s best burrito.
Murals of cerulean, turquoise, tangerine, and fuchsia enliven alley walks, calling for peace, love, and progress in each spray and stroke. Messages sing in the afternoon quiet.
Shoppers weave through storefronts, markets, and food stalls, assessing clothes, lettuce heads, and bracelets that dazzle beneath a California sun. They trade with merchants. Chat with old friends.
Evening sea breezes funnel the cosmopolitan grid. Workers drive away in cars, and children ride on bikes, shoppers with bags in hand, stumble homeward bound. Happy hours and golden hours grow smiles.
People rise onto rooftops for sangria, old fashions, and vodka sodas with lime, searching the horizon for a glimpse of tomorrow, a reminder of today. Purple mountains zigzag in the distance. Ocean sparkles enlighten hope.
Stars burst to life in a violet, cloudless sky, and the city ebbs and flows like the tide miles away, people coming, people leaving, people staying for one more view.
The sun sets on the urban core, and the sliver moon ascends, trailing the sky canvas, midnight to morning, but the city never sleeps. Full of life, always in motion.