Keep your nose to the grindstone echo and boom. Tucked in shirt and buttoned blue collars. Coffee, no milk, no sugar. Pagans in a pageant lifting slabs with slack hands. Old muscles knotted and torn a drone sound, stillborn as the childless playground. Mocking and mundane the bell rings and shatters the silence leaving tools on the floor and empty parking spaces. Nothing left but the weep of pigeons in the rafters and the breeze that arrives only after the workers departure.