The park is a narrow strip of grass by the river. Mostly, people pass through it on bikes or jogging with their dogs, but few linger. One guy though has laid out bowls of food for pigeons and stray cats. The pigeons have appeared, but not the cats. They'll come, he says.
Jets of water from the firefighters' hoses form successive arcs in the sunlight. (There's no sign of a current or recent fire. Maybe it's a test of hose functioning or a training session.)
They're the kind of teens that would be portrayed in the media as troubled or wild. They're polite and give us precise directions that help us find our way through a neighborhood hit by unexpected street closings.
Her spine curves along the underside of the boulder as she searches for insects in the grass.
The river looks like Turkish coffee, and the bridges are the open mouths drinking it.
Barbed wire loops along the stone walls that enclose the drug rehab facility. The building is an old stone structure with narrow windows, the shades drawn on most. There's silence from the yard behind the wall.
By the rail yard, there's a broken water fountain. Grass springs out of its nozzle.