The Toronto suburbs sprawl seemingly infinite, when exploring on foot. Although almost certainly realised by my tracking back on myself in error, the urban sprawl misleads me into believing in it’s mystical borderless existence. On a spring day, like the one when I took the above photo last week, you get an intangible vibe from the suburbs. I try to capture it within the ensuing words.
Warmth clings to the air, not dread, as the sweetness of spring envelops all in its natural, saccharine, tendrils. Yet still I sniff a whiff of dejection as a time ravaged man slowly pushes his weathered shopping cart home; his face re-arranged by the many storms he’s surpassed, of which the last has taken more toll than the first.
The cars host, mostly, the semi-affluent. Yet, sometimes passes by a machine that only old money could afford. The odd ancient, non-classic, car may also rarely punctuate the common middle-class flow and insult the natives with its lacking sophistication.
Time passes, but little changes. All is still in the suburbs. All is well, or not, as in the suburbs all you see is the enfolding Spring and all you hear are the ceaseless chirps of the city birds.
(Photo – Eli Woodbine, Canada, 2016)