You belong to no one, everyone, yet you exist in the shadows of politicians and history. You have a reputation of being forgotten.
I stride past sweet honeysuckle, but traces of decay, drudgery, death, make me crinkle my nose and hasten my pace. Low tide unveils muddy banks hoarding plastic water bottles and old tires — relics from a habitually neglectful era. Unbeknownst to the great blue heron watching me with a statuesque neck and suspicious eye, lead, beryllium, and arsenic dwell below her feet, masked by turbid eddies.
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