Laced up my hiking boots. Stepped out from my books and into the hills. Windless. Still all ’round, I thought.

A mile or so into the trek I found some fallen pines that made a kind of cove amidst some granite stones jutting from the earth. I unloaded my ruck, sat down, unzipped my ruck for a book by Paul Kingsnorth and began to read and to listen for wildlife. A few whitetails browsed grasses by a trail. Otherwise it was silent.

I looked at the trees. It’s early November and the hardwoods are exploding with their moving colors–orange, red, rust, scarlet, crimson, on and on.

Bbrrrrrrrr! A chainsaw and bulldozer, leveling the trees and making way for another cookie-cutter house, destroyed the silence of the woods. The deer scampered off. I wandered if they experienced lamentation as I did. No squirrels now. Just noise—Brrrrrrr! I could hear the trees crash upon the ground.

I tried to read but seethed instead. When will it end? Not until it’s all paved, I suppose. And perhaps a couple, sipping cocktails, will wonder aloud, “I wonder why we’re not seeing any wildlife? We paid such a handsome price for this property. Just couldn’t stand all that Atlanta traffic,” and sip again.

I walked back. Could not concentrate on the Kingsnorth book. No deer. Just the saw and bulldozer and the thrum of ladders and shovels for company.