Before we built that smirking airport, before the phones told us where to go, before the strike, before the streetcar, before we read comics on the radio. Long before we found a way to gauge the coldest day. Before the flood, before the treaty, before we broke a promise to appear. Before we drew the new team logo. Before the taste of Malathion lingered here. Way before we skated down the Eaton Place Parkade, you were lifted by a blue jay, beating wings above a sea, with a wave of grazing bison and tallgrass prairie.
You were set in sandy soil, and stand, a mighty oak.
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