Quiet. The world is holding its breath and the lake is utterly still. Without the playful glints of sunlight on coruscating ripples, the surface looks dusky green. Reflection of the gray sheet overhanging the city, my neighborhood and this vast inland sea blends with the soft art-deco green of the lake’s limestone bed casting a weary, forlorn aspect. From my vantage on the rocky shoreline near hulks of ancient concrete, I could be on some isolated beach looking toward the Bering Sea, but the tiny structure one mile out gives it away. The crib, the pumping station supplying fresh water (the purest water of any metropolitan area in the world) to South Chicago lies a mile off shore. I am standing on the edge of an enormous, complicated, sometimes tragic, sometimes transcendent, city: beautiful, sweet home, Chicago.
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