They set aside a bundle of money, billions of it, to retrieve a concept of water in this place. All of our needs returned at the end of our lives, in ways we can’t comment on. And all of life fires on the economy of our ability to hope. Once you stop changing, you stop hoping. There’s the river, a channel of cement madness and defiant islands where herons build nests out of those blue tarpaulins. Where the silt is beaded with plastic impropriety, like Beverly Hills. They’re bringing bulldozers and warring environmentalists and bike path enthusiasts along as angry old poets yell at elderly Canadian architects. Belief banging out the temporal guidance codes for some unknown celestial interventionists. But listen, that neighborhood over by the river with the warehouses and the cement levees, it feels like home to me.