Heavy machines growl for days,
gulching our yard’s edges.
Screeching metal arms,
teeth-like hands,
scoop dirt into piles
taller than men.
They sever roots
of our oldest oak
to lay plastic pipes
that will soon funnel life
to everyone on our street.
A handful of earth–red, damp,
numinous–is not
the freshly tilled land
my toddler touches
on the slick screen of my phone
or the robotic voice
that spurts dirt.
I tell my children
a piece of us has been de-rooted,
rebooted.
One smears dirt on his belly,
smiles.
The other asks,
how can someone own a tree?