...fourfortyseven...

A dirt devil twisted its way past my car, angled like a drunk holding up a lamppost, tilting at the wind milling around it. Northern Illinois see few dirt devils, and this one seemed hell-bent on making a show of it.
Road construction has rendered painful any passage through the town where I work. One of the three most important intersections in town is a pile of rubble, signs in quadruplicate warn drivers not to turn left (or suffer a cacaphony of car horns) and others point to swerves around backhoes, pavers and Business Entrance Here -->.
Getting from one place to another means carefully planning one's route in advance, waiting in the hot dry sun as columns of cars accustomed to two lanes squeeze down to one, and taking advantage of breaks in the procession to dart onto side streets. A simple run to the bank takes on an air of slow-motion spy chase, leaving pursuants in a traffic-jammed lurch.