Nothing in my camera phone is capable of capturing the fluorescence in the sky, or the way that the June bugs badger my ears worse than the sound of the trucks motoring by on Dundas Street.
In the five minutes I sit here, at least a dozen pedestrians have up-and-over’d this bridge while dog-walkers strolled below, and nearly twice as many cyclists have sped underneath, seemingly at the same pace as the planes silhouetted in the sunset’s remains.
In front of me lies a large grassed plot of land, quietly waiting for its inevitable development. Few in this neigbourhood wanted this paved path; the wooded railside was more than enough for they and their pups. But now; now this bridge is used so much that the multiple forms of traffic causes my paper to shake as I pen it.
Urban space renewal will never stop being magical to me.