It's across the street from our apartment. A vacant lot really, it's sandwiched between two of the highrises that line Sheridan Road in Chicago's Edgewater district. A concrete walkway runs down the center. Lawn flanks the walkway on either side. There are a half dozen benches, surprisingly comfortable. 10 or 12 trees are spread out, each ringed with a circle of stones at their base. At one end limestone boulders tumble into the blue waters of Lake Michigan.
It is serene, by city standards. Traffic is a gentle rush. It's mixed with the noise of construction, providing the bass tones of the city's symphony. There is the occasional honk of geese flying by in their V formation. Butterflies float by, small birds hop through the grass, people sit, appropriately distant from one another in these times or walk dogs, enjoying the short season of Chicago sun.
Technically part of the lakefront, during the height of the lock down it was closed off. Open now it has become a place of refuge. A place to read, write or simply quietly contemplate. It has become my front yard, the difference being that when it snows I won't have to shovel it.
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