Of Greater Threat

Autumn is half passed.  The leaves have shown their splendor and now litter the ground where they grow crisp and begin the slow process of decay. 

As a freshman in college I took an introductory class in forestry.  In one lecture the prof suggested we pick up a single dried leaf and ignite it.  It will burn, he said, because in a very literal sense the leaf is a tiny slice of stored sunlight, and fire is the light energy rapidly released. Without fire, the energy is released slowly through complex chemical pathways we call decomposition, and returned to the soil to be taken up again by plants and animals.  The cycle continues ad infinitum.  There is no loss, no waste.

I was already aware of photosynthesis, but this example drove home its real beauty and magic.  A grand circle of life, a highly refined, efficient, and effective recycling of everything essential, born of the sun, and beautifully ensconced on a blue planet spinning away in a universe that may stretch to infinity.  And here we are, privileged participants, graced with the ability to comprehend and marvel and respect how we might meld seamlessly with ecological systems established and perfected eons before our arrival.  

How are we doing?

Autumn is half passed.  There is a golden glow in the broomsedge where it stands against mottled green and burgundy leaves of blackberry.  In idle areas are the remnants of aster, artichoke, goldenrod, their seed heads matured and awaiting foraging finches.  Saplings have been brutally scraped, scarred, abused by white tailed bucks proclaiming territories.  The Juncos have arrived, and white throated sparrows.  There is a rustling of leaves as squirrels gather and store a season’s mast.  The skies are overcast, clouds hang low and drop pellets of sleet on our morning walk.  There’s fire in the wood stove, a vegetable garden put to rest. It’s a season of endings and beginnings; accomplishments and hopes; reflections.

Autumn showcases the prominence of some invasive plant species.  Our woodland is choked with bush honeysuckle.  It thrives in the understory, displacing natives, jeopardizing the woodland’s future.  It holds its leaves into late fall so its prevalence is on full display.  Far too common also are rogue Bradford pear and burning bush, occupying odd areas everywhere.  Their leaves add vibrant color to the fall landscape but the plants are a curse.  For decades they were widely planted and enjoyed before their sinister side was discovered, and now we’re stuck with their aggressive and competitive inclinations for the foreseeable future.

It’s all too easy to find examples of introduced species gone awry, and the stories are all similar.  They begin with an exotic plant or animal finding itself in a new environment.  When conditions are suitable, the new arrival quickly reproduces, and with a growing presence begins competing with natives for food and space.  Sometimes, local extinctions result.  Always, some form of stress or hardship is exerted on the ecosystem.  

Suppose there was a species capable of moving on its own accord to any location on the planet, and was particularly effective at adapting to a range of conditions and habitats.  What if it were an animal, a top predator, with uncanny problem solving capabilities that allowed for unique innovations to address food availability and the need for shelter.  Suppose it had an advanced brain and could reason and comprehend like no other animal and it believed itself superior, above and separate from all other life, capable and willing to wield dominion over all its domain. What if it looked upon the earth as something to be subdued, transformed to the animal’s liking and comfort regardless of costs, and its numbers grew until its impact could be seen and quantified on every corner of the globe. Could any species be of greater threat?

There was a heavy frost last night and the pond holds a skim of ice.  A summer’s growth lay on the ground, an energy taken from the sun seeps into the soil. There is magic and beauty beyond measure.