The Weight of Stone

We build to outlast the weather. We stack stone upon stone, creating corridors of grey that mimic the cliffs of a mountain. There is a strange arrogance in this, a belief that if we make the walls high enough, the wind will eventually lose interest. But the sky remains indifferent. It shifts, it gathers, it turns the color of bruised iron, indifferent to the geometry of our ambitions. We walk through these canyons, our footsteps swallowed by the scale of what we have constructed, feeling small and temporary. The architecture promises permanence, yet the clouds above are already moving, changing shape, erasing the certainty of the horizon. We are merely passing through a brief intersection of granite and vapor. Does the stone know it is being watched by the air, or does it simply wait for the thaw to begin again?