Each house is a massive, lifeless, robotic rhinoceros, its thin layers of fresh or peeling paint barely hiding the heavy armor that made bolting it to the earth so desirable. Its joints have been welded in place, its hooves bolted to the ground, its eyes shuttered to hide the massive plasma TV screens from late-night passers-by.
But before dawn, I see that I was wrong. They're just cows. Big, sleepy cows, dozing under the first rays of morning. Tractor trailers driving up Old York Road give voice to their occasional snores.
Great, big, tired cows.
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