"Before me lies a slope of wild grasses, saturated in the copper light of early
autumn. Insects dabble in wild asters and Queen Anne's lace, and animal trails
wind through the dense greenery. But just where the terrain should plunge
steeply through a woodland of maple, beech, cherry, and ash trees, it flattens
out like a gigantic tennis court or helicopter landing pad. What just a few
weeks earlier and for many thousands of years before had been a hillside in
rural northeastern Pennsylvania has been sliced in half by a five--acre concrete
slab. It is, in fact, the site of a new gas pad."
Trebbe Johnson shares more in this essay on giving thanks to wounded places.
