I walk through an urban forest most every day. It is a paved bicycle path with tall trees and natural brush along the way. I am on my fourth season of doing so; I have walked it in 96 degrees Fahrenheit and in 18 inches of snow, as first footprints. I have marveled at the transformation from winter’s slumber to spring’s buzz marked by the emergence of baby wildlife, with bunnies as greatest in numbers. In June and July, I chuckled at the chaotic presence of the bunnies, darting back-and-forth or chomping down within inches of the tar edge, as if humans weren’t speeding by.
It’s now late August and everything is different. I can spot the occasional red and yellow leaf on the ground foreshadowing the coming season. Baby bunnies are rare, and the older bunnies they’ve become are tough to spot. Their parents have all but disappeared. I became fascinated by this. Some of it is self-explanatory: the great circle of life has certainly been busy culling their numbers, so it’s those still kicking that are of most interest to me, now cleverly tucked underneath the full summer undergrowth. Those still exploring are who learned and adapted, and will carry on to see the rich blanket of red and yellow leaves coming to tuck them in for winter’s renewal.
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