Every time I return to the town where I grew up, another field has died.
I think, “They can’t build anymore houses. There isn’t any room.”
And then they find room. The grassy lot, once rich with goldenrod and dandelions. The meadow, once overrun with blackberries but open, muddy in the rain, perched over by finches with their talons between thorns. The old field, where the deer bent their heads at dusk.
They call these places unused. Vacant. Potential real estate. They build clone houses with beige plastic siding and windows that look straight into the neighbor’s bedroom.
Why do we need more houses? Who would want to live here when the open spaces are gone?
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