There's a driveway down the street that looks postapocalyptic, because the large tree in the lawn wasn't planted low enough, so its roots are raised and visible and have broken up much of the asphalt; weeds and even some grass grow in the cracks. Often when I walk by it, I use the sight as a reminder of the inhumanity of deep time, of how the wilderness will reclaim our mighty works, as in Shelley's "Ozymandias" poem.

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