If you look out from the window, the last window of the small white ranch house on the right. You see nothing just trees and farmlands. You don't know of the swamp where frogs swim, and turtles go. They are only the few of the creatures guarding this beloved place. Thorns encrust where ever they may, drawing blood from hands arms, legs, ripping jeansand jackets. Tearing curses from your lips as you fall through the mud not knowing how, or why, but your new sneakers are now entirely, brown and gone to filth. How about when you get caught in thorns by the ankle dragging you to step back. Tripping, laughing hard enough to hear the bird's erie cry. Not a living soul for the watching hawk is not the only predator. Hunters comb around bellowing loudly with their guns and weapons. They litter my home where I used to dream about pixies being able to roam or have a deer cross my path. They don't know what they've destroyed what they will lose. All for the new homes.