There's a hole where there was a tree

I saw the place where they're building the building where there once was a tree and a tire swing. Steven saw it few days back and reminded me of the night we sat in that field on an fly-tipped couch watching the sky and talking about all the things. This will never change. This continuing conversation between us will persist. We will be in new places, eating blueberry pie at the feet of a mountain. What my wonder turns to is the people who are in this building they are building. Will they feel our stories? Will they sense the moments we made here? Will they know? I think of my own place now, in bed, somewhere off Alberta, what once was. Who once was. Their stories. Their grounds. The sacred rhythms interrupted that must still speak hushed under the highway sounds. I hear the crickets. Are they children of the ancient lineage which has remained? Are they new like me? I'm reminded to dig into these questions.. of what I have displaced. Of what my presence is built upon. Of what is beneath this layer. Scratching. Digging.