The Back Porch (#14)

As always, these exercises are taken from N.D. Wilson in his posts entitled So You Wanna Be A Writer. :)
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   The sun has burst forth in all its glory. There are no clouds to veil its face today. The back porch waits patiently for the shadow of the apartment building to slowly diminish as the sun blazes its way upwards and across the sky. The porch can afford to be patient. Barring some cataclysmic event, it isn't going anywhere. An advantage of being made of stone and iron.
   How different the temperament of the porch from its surroundings! A riot of life, of color, of shivering leaves and and dancing vines surrounds the cement landing. The porch is impassive. Calm. Patient. It sees time so much more slowly than the trees - and trees have long, long lives in which to watch the years pass by. But the back porch is made of stone. It has no seasons to mark the times by, no leaves to shed or sprouts to push up from the ground. It does not feel the cold in winter, is not moved by the heat of summer.
   For what does it wait? For what would  a slab of concrete, a hardened mash of stone and mortar, be waiting? I will tell you.
   It waits for the end of all things. It waits to slowly change from a hard, molded square, to a crumbled mass of broken rocks, to soft silt drifting down a river. It is part of the earth. It will return to it. It will wait.