2017-05-23T13:33:18Z (GMT) by
In a suburban block, the fences that appear to separate lives actually connect them. Not in any metaphorical sense—in the metaphorical sense they very much separate lives. But practically, a small and agile creature, like a cat, or a child, can find their way onto one and use it to traverse the guts of the neighbourhood. In that sense, fences form a kind of network. They even form hubs, where they meet at the corners of four yards, breezeblock garages and tin tool sheds clustered together. It was across one of these cinderblock networks that Tyson led me one night, stoned, to stop at an intersection and look out over the yards.
At first I saw nothing, but sensed that the air had grown cooler. Tyson’s expression urged silence, eyes wide; I heard the faint slosh of water. I stared at a patch of dark yard until finally, instantaneously, it transformed into something recognisable. And it was the same in every other yard.
Swimming pools, glistening in the light.