By Steven Wade Veatch A whispering breeze, scented with clean earth, moss, and fallen leaves, calls me into the cedar swamp—a refuge where the woods are rich and wet. A path winds through a botanical spectacle: Fiddleheads unfurl in wonder, red swamp roses compete with shrubs, tiny white starflowers wink, marsh marigolds bloom, and trilliums reverently nod. A tapestry of green lichen covers bare tree limbs. Delicate mosses in emerald hues flourish on fallen logs. Tamarack needles feel like velvet. An impossible number of creatures hide: Warblers sing in sunshine fresh as spring. Woodpeckers’ random holes dot dead trees. A water snake patrols Finch Creek. Frogs sit in a pool waiting to chant tonight. The landscape opens as Grass River gently glides over sediments of sand, silt, and mud—flowing at the nexus of climate change, and as the moments pass, we are brought closer to the day of no return.
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