Diplodocus is a one-person crew. Pour the asphalt, sprinkle the gravel, tamp with one massive foot. Her reflective vest blares orange against the rattling combustion engines of a misty afternoon.
Her head is so far away from her feet, she stomps and hopes the warm squish is the filled pot hole and not another raccoon. Her head is so far forward, it sees into a future. There, the pot holes have opened up again. There, the pot holes have ceased to matter.