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A city loomed behind the visitors, its diverse constructs forming transient habitats interspersed amongst core workspace of provincial government.  To their left, an old fort served as tourist attraction, built of another time, after that which hung in permanence as mist unstirred over field now parkland.  To their front, unseen yet known, a river of acute size worked its lazy way northeast, its water draining lakes home to numerous cities of two nations.

Walking the park by day or night, hidden senses plugged into an ethereal network and spiked an expansion of perceived environment beyond the visible, tingling skin with its reminder humans build on a history of those who came before, in family, in society.

Others now gone walked this place.  A victor gained most of a continent for two decades and assured the dominance of its language into the future.  The loser constricted into one province and spewed distraught citizens away, by ocean and southward, along a coast where locals vocalised vehement objection to their settling.

(Musical interlude: Acadian Driftwood ~ The Band)

So many people affected then and now, reaching the all who call North America home.  Then, against a life of subsistence dependent on the non-existent consistency of weather and biological health, people struggled for survival.  In distant places, the privileged drew lines on paper, what we shall call yours, what we will call mine, temporary arrangements until one or the other decided their holdings insufficient.

Visitors to the Plains of Abraham commingle with the unseen fallen, numbers dwarfing those who plied cliff and hillocks with muskets and swords, to the whole of the displaced, through time, and to us, however we identify our ethnicity and origin.

In inclemency and under starry nights, by daylight and radiant sun, I walked this place, what shaped so much of our identity.  I felt it all.

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