DAILY PHOTO: Chicago River
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Varanasi smashes up against the Ganga. Note the tightly packed warren of lanes near the ghats, as if the city is compressed there. It's only farther from the river that the city unfolds, gaining breathing room, becoming wide enough for streets and signs that aren't blurred by being too close to one's face. The ubiquitous smoky scent also hints at a collision. Yet more evidence is seen in the barren east bank, a sandbar occupied by lounging cows and cricketers. As if the city refuses to crawl over the river as most cities do. The east bank desolation allows the formation of the "Golden Bridge," a band of orange that spans the glassy waters each morning, the only bridge in sight. ramparts loom; boats glide over glassy waters


hatchwork of trees
provides a hunter’s blind
to see the city
Rubble cubes lie like piled dice. Temples and throne halls collapsed into mossy blocks brought low by the meager -- if inexorable -- forces of water drips and grass roots, roots that became wedges, splitting stone from stone. People push the blocks back together in homage to ancestors, but turn one's back and the hungry jungle consumes. Those ancestors crafted such sturdy stuff out of stout stone blocks. How much more quickly will our planned obsolescent cities be swallowed? stout stone blocks - toppled, dissolved, buried - a city swallowed