I was struck by the bold, dark lines of the fallen trees when I ventured through Swiftwater Park. The spring was emerging. Vibrant moss was a dazzling green, soft and damp. The logs fell, making a puzzle of under-over on top of paths.
Making the conscious choice to seek beauty in what I was tempted to think of as “destruction” I was rewarded. The forest was magical. The tops of trees were green, while their trunks were dark black of charcoal.
Beyond the forest, the sun shined. That is where the destruction of the forest actually occured. All logged post fire. Every single pre-fire tree was gone. No chance for those forests to be forests, to go through their cycle of fire and growth. New trees were already planted. People blocked the road, making sure that curious people like me didn’t wander back to were they were actively logging.