I turn and sit on a rotten log to wait patiently for the damp wood to awaken. Here I am, in the center of an aged, deceasing forest on a boring Thursday morning, though I know it will not be quite so dull soon. I shake my hair out of a ponytail and glance at my watch, 6:30. Shuddering at the growing feeling of moisture the log absorbed seeping through my jeans, I try to focus on letting my eyes and mind adjust to the serene setting. A sharp pang of wind tosses my matted hair playfully. It swims around, darting through the shaky trees, making them groan and sigh at their rude awakening. The shot of wind tickles the delicate, crinkling and dying leaves who have changed their color dramatically. The gleeful wind dances around, stirring the leaves like making soup, with flying shades of brown, red and orange that had maybe been stirred one too many times.

To my left, a cluster of shriveled bushes is huddled, as though trying to keep warm. I look closer. Ah, these are the blackberry bushes. I remember this summer’s sour, wild blackberries that were produced from the same plants that I jovially munched on to satisfy my hunger for a taste of adventure. Yep, adventure tastes like wild blackberries and yep, that’s how I am in the summerwoods. Those days are gone now, for the woods at least. To the right of the log, there among soggy, rotten leaves is a pure white and small plant. She stands proudly in stark contrast to the, nowadays, frail scene. Indian pipe flowers, rare and delicate, they are my true favorites in this home. If only, there was a whole field of them… My attention turns from the now lively forest friends to their approaching doom. I wander away towards the silent neighbors. Yellow, monstrous machines that growl like dogs and love like rocks. No comfort or gentleness there. They grin sarcastically as they wait to destroy as they do every day, taking more and more away from serenity. I can’t stay with you any longer. I march wearily back to the unsuspecting forest and observe a squirrel madly dashing about and concentrating so hard on his search for food that he fails to notice the chaos of wind, trees, colorful leaves and others playing freely.

“Yeah, little squirrel, better hurry. Once you leave, there will be nothing left.” I murmur. The mood around me settles as I say my last goodbyes to the best friends anyone could have. The air, which previously smelled of nutmeg and sassafras, now is filled with gas and smoke as the nearby machines noisily awaken. Goodbye, sweet forest, goodbye forever.