The construction resumes.
The workers are back and this time they are deep in the trenches. Now it truly reminds me of an archeological dig sans the treasures. Even though it is a sunny 17 degrees outside, one guy in a carhart jumpsuit is sweating. They are bundled and outfitted in toolbelts weighed down with tools of the trade; hammers, measuring tapes,nails and things I can't identify. I hear them pounding on the wooden foundations they are laying, to support the areas, soon, I suppose the cement will flow.
It looks like they are at least a story down below. I am drawn to the piles of dirt the result of days of big machines pawing the earth. The piles of dirt seem to almost reach my mother's first floor kitchen window. There's a maze of wooden planks laid to give the workers some traction in the mud. A cement truck manages a tricky three-point turn in the alley, I wait to see if a garage door is going to be left with a hieroglyphic ding, the 21st century sign of progress.
I am already mourning the loss of sunlight, the lack of stars at night, the surprise of the size of a full moon, in full bloom. I will not see the steeple of the church down the block and I won't be able to catch mail carrier #39 with my outgoing mail. I have an unobstructed view of him at Frida's house across the empty lot.
I can't help but feel a sadness for the dark piles of earth, heaped and lying in wait. I wonder if there's something dormant inside, part of nature's cycle anticipating bloom.
The workers are back and this time they are deep in the trenches. Now it truly reminds me of an archeological dig sans the treasures. Even though it is a sunny 17 degrees outside, one guy in a carhart jumpsuit is sweating. They are bundled and outfitted in toolbelts weighed down with tools of the trade; hammers, measuring tapes,nails and things I can't identify. I hear them pounding on the wooden foundations they are laying, to support the areas, soon, I suppose the cement will flow.
It looks like they are at least a story down below. I am drawn to the piles of dirt the result of days of big machines pawing the earth. The piles of dirt seem to almost reach my mother's first floor kitchen window. There's a maze of wooden planks laid to give the workers some traction in the mud. A cement truck manages a tricky three-point turn in the alley, I wait to see if a garage door is going to be left with a hieroglyphic ding, the 21st century sign of progress.
I am already mourning the loss of sunlight, the lack of stars at night, the surprise of the size of a full moon, in full bloom. I will not see the steeple of the church down the block and I won't be able to catch mail carrier #39 with my outgoing mail. I have an unobstructed view of him at Frida's house across the empty lot.
I can't help but feel a sadness for the dark piles of earth, heaped and lying in wait. I wonder if there's something dormant inside, part of nature's cycle anticipating bloom.
posted by Christina at 9:40 AM
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