I'm Basically Treebeard

There are surveyors next door.  The people always said they were going to build a house there and now they are actually going to.  I never really believed they would.


I live in a house in the woods.  Looking towards the river, there is a neighbor's house to the left and wooded wetland to the right.
This afternoon I hear the guttural sound of a machine digging its teeth into wetland vegetation and ripping out roots.  I delight that it will not have an easy job.  I'm trying to be nice.  My parents told me I have to be nice.
We see owls and hummingbirds in the trees at dusk, in the morning we see the tracks of coyotes and raccoons on the shore.  I doubt we will see them much more; they will become corpses on the side of the road.

I'm sure that my parents had to tear apart the wilderness to build this house that I exalt, so I shouldn't throw any more blame on the people next door than I should on myself, ourselves.

But then the machine starts again, vomits noise and gasoline fume into the cicada breath of summer, and something inside of me writhes.

Anywho, I've been reading a lot of good authors lately so I feel like writing plaintively.


Savo 'lass a lalaith,

Heather


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