SNIP

Pity on the flowers, crushed beneath muddy boots. Pity on the fallen trees, limbed from top to bottom. Pity on the fresh sprouts of pricker bushes, drawn into the sunlit path, into our way. They need to be cut, trimmed back, for our sake, for the horses, and for the hounds. Surely our comfort matters more, but, still, they tried so hard, used so much energy to form themselves, to stretch out over the trail. They really must be cut, though. So I raise my loppers, position the branch between blades - SNIP. I continue down the path, rationalizing my destruction.