FAS

In the empty lot - a place not natural, but wild - among the trash of human absence,   the slough and shamble of the city's seasons, a few old locusts bloom.   A few wood birds fly and sing in the new foliage   --warblers and tanagers, birds wild as leaves; in a million each one would be rare, new to the eyes. A man couldn't make a habit of such color,   such flight and singing. But they're the habit of this wasted place. In them   the ground is wise. They are its remembrance of what is.
Wendell Berry The Wild

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