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Question for a Free Meal

I am not a market, yet many paths trade through me. I am not a river, yet streams of metal circle my heart. A watchful bridge of blue stands guard at my side, Its steps climbing over while my circle holds below. Some call me by a number, spoken in code— Half a soldier’s march, half a traveler’s stage. Seek me on the road where Utawala breathes, And you’ll find my name within the count to a hundred. And when I grow, I dream of straight lines and corners, Of leaving my circle to stand as a right angle. What location am I?