How the Land Forgets

A narrow muddy creek, beyond the creek a new housing lot. Further on a small stand of wood where a large woodland once spread all the way to the highway. Beyond the highway a farm clings to fifty acres but not much thrives and much is failing. Then you arrive at the only hill for miles around I sometimes go there in the snow when all the displacement and sully are covered over. Occasionally, on a fresh morning when the sun is up and shining like the first day of creation; when the snow sparkles its blue diamonds I forget the muddy work-boots that kicked over the native and natural. The land forgets its wounds and heals momentarily, but for a little while.