What Remains

The remains of the December 1st windstorm remain piled up on the streets of my neighborhood. Stacks of palm fronds, tangles of branches, piles of leaves. In some places only the heavier sections of trunks of massive trees remain, sawn into chunks that seem suited for end tables in  some giant's house hidden deep in a forest.

My condo complex, always on top of grooming the grounds, immediately cleaned up the mess, but has now instituted a massive tree-trimming, and for days the manic whine of chain saws and the grind of chippers has wrought aural chaos inside my brain. So today, I thought, I'll stop by the County Arboretum. Watch the ducks and the peacocks. Walk in silence.

Sometimes I'm so wrong.

The Arboretum lost 235 trees in the storm. Another 700 need restorative pruning. Giants that once towered over the grounds lie on their sides, uprooted. Where there once were limbs, now there are stumps and wounds. Still birds sing in the branches and peacocks strut as though nothing had happened.

I walked among the crews, the machines, and the rubble amazed at how much beauty remains.