Battle Cries

May 13, 2020

The Woods of Burlington is one of countless bold intrusions upon a collectively decided enemy – an enemy which, either through fear or arrogance, we have sought to tame and destroy in the name of progress. To make ourselves feel more human, we must conquer what we came from, the very earth on which we evolved from hablas to erectus to sapiens, an earth that both coddled and punished us until we were ready to leave to nest. I wonder if she ever imagined we would turn on her, that we would ravage the rainforests and pump plumes of pollution into the sky, massacre our four-legged cousins until the point of extinction, and even the less severe – pocket and domesticate the wild North American forest into neat squares of a neighborhood, suburbia that only tolerated the parts of the natural world it could control.

Between my neighbor and my mother there has been for quite some time a silent turf war that escalated when my neighbor planted a small flower garden along the side of our house, a clear violation. As I run out of the driveway, I see her prisoners of war, planted in neat rows and swaying, sadly, in the breeze which carries down from the trees, rustling their branches in a mournful song for them. When the clouds part and the sun shines down from a clear blue sky, the Woods of Burlington is picturesque, groomed into orderly lines of compact homes that peer at each other to make sure everybody’s lawn is trimmed. My shoes pound ruthlessly against the concrete streets, shallow trenches that bury the enemy, once tall standing stretches of trees and wilderness that I can imagine stood unopposed for so long. As I turn of the street blinding sunlight glints from the manmade pond across the street where I used to skip with a net and bucket when I was little. I would squat along the steep bank, careful not to make a sound, and creep up on the unsuspecting frogs. They were far too easy to catch. They should have been more aware, once they realized straying even a few hops away from the water could mean a swift death by bicycle tire or a curious dog. There were four of these ponds in the neighborhood – we created them all. One was nestled between a street and a nursing home, and at its banks a kneeling willow wept over it. Perhaps one of her family had been torn from her to create it. The second was behind the first, serving as the backyard to a row of houses and home to two frightened turtles who clung to the side of a log when the weather was warm. I stop every morning on my run to see them, and when they hear my feet fall, they retreat, scampering into the water and disappearing in the dark. The third serves yet again as a backyard, and a place where impatient fathers teach their children how to use a fishing rod to pull the few sickly fish from the water, struggle to pull them off the hook, and toss them back into the pond like a frisbee. The trail system I run passes this pond. I stopped running the roads long ago.

Deeper into the trails things become wilder. It is easy to tell we once subdued the tall trees and reeds, the gnarled bushes and long, uncut grass. Even in the marsh that seeps through the back of the neighborhood, we built a boardwalk. I run past a sign that warns me: TRAIL TEMPORARILY CLOSED. As if to let the area know – soon, you will be under attack again. Now, I am on enemy territory, but no fear strikes me. I’ve run these trails before, many times. My white shirt flaps in the wind, which is growing steadily stronger. It is my white flag – I come in peace. My heart thrills when I step on one of the boards, and it flips upwards, dislodging itself from the neat order it was place into. The water from the marshlands seeps upwards into my shoes, triumphant in its small victory. I keep running.

Weeds push up through the cracks in the boardwalk and water squeezes up through as I step down. A tree has fallen along the path, sacrificed itself in the name of taking back. I leap over it, and land in a puddle. My shoes turn brown with muddied water, and I turn a corner to a trail that runs past rows of houses. On the other side a stream trickles between two high dirt walls. It is obvious it used to flow powerfully, but it has been long reduced from its former glory. It is easy to jump.

I diverge from the path now, stepping carefully over poison ivy and pulling my legs away from the traps of the thornbushes. I reach a tree line, ending at the bank of a ditch in which another small creek runs, easier to clear than the first. I can feel the trees watching me as I step out into a vast field, my back turned. They are wary, but they are in no place to attack. They know I come peacefully.

The field is grass and muddy divots, filled with rainwater and perfect for twisting an ankle. I carry on with caution, following the stream until it makes a sharp left turn into a fortress of yellow reeds and tapers off completely into the ground. I walk back up to the bank, preparing to cross back over, and alarms go off upon my intrusion in the form of three golf-ball sized frogs that launch themselves into the water with an enormous splash. One is braver than the others. He sits still, head bobbing above the water, challenging my presence here with his beady eyes. I wonder if I have ensnared any of them before, long ago. I wonder if they recognize me. We probably all look the same to them – dark storm clouds on their horizon that mean nothing but danger. I cross over to the other side, and am met with an ambush, caught in thorny branches and knee deep in weeds and wildflowers. Claw marks from

the fighting trees are scored up and down my legs. As I tear myself free, I reach the second creek, and in an attempt to cross, my foot slips into the water. Mud sloshes between my toes.

After a struggle through tangles of branches that reach with fingers to pull me back, I reach the trail, and return home with a smile, that nature, however diminished she may feel here, has fought back. I realize now she has not been vanquished – she is simply biding her time, holding off her troops, waiting for the day our time runs out, when she will take everything back.