nature nurtures its private paths
Behind my house is a maze of white cedar, corridors appear not cut so much as sewn together, likely by the original owner to encourage new growth soft to touch.
I imagine them as highways for wildlife, but suspect most would prefer to scuttle the thickets of branches and survive their micro-jungle less out in the open.
I have slogged the many switchbacks and not once found a sign of housing, although fresh snow reveals many tracks into thickets of shrubbery surrounding.
At times I take a shortcut with my mower, when mud sucks wheels on the upper field, causing faded cedar chips to scatter as packed black dirt is wind-revealed.
You’d think that would sprout hearty weeds, but give it a few weeks and the corridor is paved with cobbles of tree debris; cedars refurbishing their earthen floor.
Grass not mowed turns to fields like wheat, through which animal excursions bend blades to affirm private streets, corridors over which mowers ride condemned.
