12 May 2023 – I’m walking north on St. Geroge through residential Mount Pleasant, just about to cross East 11th. Quietly friendly and human-scale heritage homes; warming temperatures; the season moving from cherry blossoms (now carpeting the ground, not trees) to showy Iceland poppies.

Important further information, for what is about to happen: this area slopes northward to what was the natural end of False Creek before all the infill took place, and many now-buried streams lie beneath these streets, still part of an invisible watershed.

I’m looking about happily as I walk. I almost don’t look down, just there on that far corner.

But then I do. And, only faintly, faint enough & further camouflaged by dappled light & fallen blossoms that I have to squint and blink at it, I see one word inscribed — how long ago? — into still-fresh cement in a neat cursive hand.

The word is…

Listen

There must be more, I think, and i start to scuff dead cherry blossoms out of the way.

There is more! The words first spiral around the fatter space of the street corner, then carry on, straight-line, north on St. George.

the buried

It is so hard to read! I keep scuffing, keep guessing, keep reading.

stream

gurgles

its

longing to

return

to

daylight

& moonlight…

Dot-dot-dot, because there is more. I’m pretty sure there is more. But that next stretch of sidewalk is encrusted with muck and yet more cherry bloom litter. Ya basta for now.

I’ll return, I will. And I’ll share the rest of the message with you.

Meanwhile, let’s all honour that hidden stream by enjoying our own daylight & moonlight. Let’s enjoy them like crazy!

Because we can, and it no longer has that privilege.