Glorious mud

Well, if I were five and a half instead of fifty-five, maybe: the water was a lovely shade of Oklahoma clay red, and it rushed down 50th to greet all of us coming in from Pennsylvania. And it got deeper the farther west I got, which can mean only one of one thing: broken water line. In this part of town, this is hardly news, inasmuch as the lines are fifty to sixty years old, but it’s still a jolt to see ponds forming along the curb on a sunny day.





1 comment

  1. Jason »

    5 September 2008 · 7:31 pm

    That’s where all that came from. I missed the river, but I drove through the leftovers coming home the other night.

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