Like this shallow, grave-like hole, surely dug for fun, containing nothing. It could be an archaeological site if it weren't for the pile of earth to the side, sticks jutting from it childishly.

The depression in the ground looks fresh. It will be gone soon, covered by undergrowth, raked over by wind that makes its way this far through the trees.

I have a not-real urge to lie down in it, just to see how it feels. I'd worry someone might see me, though there's clearly no one here, just the marks they leave.

In the empty glade, I stand next to a storm toppled beech.

I imagine the people who put this space in the ground. Kids, probably, but a weirdly adult thing to do. Such a neat, rectangular shape. It would have involved a level of conscious planning, roughly measured lines, a sense of form. They might return to look at their work, see how the woods have responded to it over time. If I waited here, forever, I wonder if we'd meet.