Down the long, springy, mud-crusted ramp — camino real for hunchbacked flatbeds, tractor-trailers and beefy dump trucks — a milkwarm breeze coquettes up my yellow-safety vest, whispers under my white ANSI Z89.1 hardhat.  This is not the first but certainly among the most captivating field conditions calls I’ve received since starting the job.  Straight ahead, cross-braced waffles of the four slabs below grade, sharp shadows cut toothy silhouettes on the slurry wall.  In my dextral eye, almost 95º Out, the north pool rises, in absence of Tower 1.  Crosswise northwest, in the rubble of twisted rebars and concrete clumps, I see it now, and know.

nest of rats
still warm
from winter’s cold