One of the good things about summer, what's left of it, is insulation.
This block of Henry Street is a hive of construction activity, with hard hatted drones at work on three sites nearby. Three connected townhouses have risen in the last year in the previously empty lot across the road, shielded from view by two enormous red oaks. The street has been ripped up in front of them - perhaps for sewer lines. Of an evening, the smell of hot tar hangs between the rooftops. Beside them, on the corner, a major renovation has been inching along in a grand old former hospital building - the townhouses are in what might have been its garden, long ago. And beside it, around the corner, another townhouse materialized from scratch, very narrow, very smart.
Down the road in the other direction the huge and rather entitled public school is enveloped in pale netting while an asbestos abatement project continues. At night.
After the lightning strike
And beyond it all, visible from the roof and terrace, the tower of stricken Christ Church is being removed painstakingly, stone by stone, window casing by window casing. It is now a blunt shell, the belfry exposed and vulnerable. They work around the clock. I can't imagine what it is costing, with two huge full time hoists and Clinton Street blocked to traffic for the duration. Our view is now bereft of the steeple's graceful points.
Double glazing and a rowdy air conditioner have not only kept me cool during the day but also oblivious of the outdoor ruckus. This will change soon, with the season. Good days of blue sky are in the offing. We have tasted them already. The sliding door will open, I will hear birds, sirens. And construction workers, including the one who whistles all day long. He's alright.
I have begun to practise my flute again, on the terrace. Perhaps he'll join me for a duet.
Or tell me where to stick my flute...