Canticle of the End

The river party’s boat slid out of the current and into still water behind a wall of driven timber, the hum in the planks falling silent as they arrived at the cofferdam construction site. Up on the bank, two files of men carried baskets of wet clay between a raw brown cut and a rising embankment, while a hand pump clanked without pause. A lean officer in shirtsleeves strode along the top of the dam toward the landing, a brass surveyor’s level tucked under one arm and ink staining his fingers —…
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