"Jump the rusted stiles when no one is looking. From here, the way is downward. Past the dried-up canal, past the metal sheds, down further through the empty overpass with its coarse concrete walls. At the bottom, there’s a small pond of standing water—a reservoir, a dull mirror for the sun, casting the green in a radiant glow.
Look closely for a while. Train your eyes on the glare of the surface. Perhaps you will begin to see the opposite of your descent. The water becomes its own underside. Spindly white lines shoot upwards, pushing past the minerals, the heavy metals and the plastic remains. These are the roots of the ruderal species, the hardiest, the weeds and invasives. Like craftsmen, they take whatever they can use.
The city eats itself, again and again. There will always be another boundary to jump. Along other canals, down the slopes of railway embankments, between demolition sites, the radiance of a thousand other empty zones already shines."