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By David Bissonette / December 21, 1987

There is the traffic of eyes, many darting like taxis around idle faces. There is the traffic of autumn leaves, though few venture downtown. There is the traffic of pigeons, not exactly v-formation, but perfect little crumb-crazy machines, bold and bobbing.

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And there is the traffic of wings, whirling at the mind's corners, making the most jaded, faded of us believe in ourselves.