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  • Walking, walking, I am always walking. Walking in this unexpected ridiculous pre-spring heat, walking under the train bridge, walking up the hill, walking past the fence, where long-demolished or maybe never built on ground sat for years freezing, filling with cesspools, filling with ice, clobber, gravel.

    Walking past where all of a sudden in the boom, somebody got energized, and in came big yellow diggers and guys in hard hats.

    Walking past where I walked past the backhoes, noisy, stop-start, sitting, idling, then silent.

    Walking, yes, under the train bridge where trains sometimes run, and runners run and along the train tracks walkers take alternate routes above the street.

    Walking along the fence, home to adverts, peelings, as the spring brings melt to the massive hole on the other side of the fence. What in anybody's name were they doing? Like giant children digging, filling, with giant tinkertoys called construction equipment. The boom brought the noise, but the hole remained.

    Through a crack in the fence, I could see the heating spring bleak pale brown water of mud, the dug, re-dug, filled, pooled, barely frozen, getting buggy too early, melted, no more financing for you buddy--mess!

    Walk, walk, walk, but hey, look:

    Someone came along and put a little Florida on the fence, here in midtown T.O.

    An optimistic pair of flamingos. Peeling birds sheltering things never built. Mudholes which once dreamed of being those posh handy-to-the-bus-stop condos.
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