Fresh molehills beside freshly torn, gaping holes in the perfectly manicured strip of lawn in front of the low, brick library. Neon orange cones, erect and scattered like alien plant life sprouted up, accelerated maturity in minutes. Laborers in equally blinding neon orange vests, up to their shoulders in the newly ripped wombs of dirt. Slowly, the veins of the city, exposed by their clawings. Kneeling, heads in the dirt, they resemble so many neon orange buds, sprayed over the lawn. By noon, sure to be matured to full cone-size.