A Pile of Broken Wood and Americans Gone to Seed

In a forlorn field, a pile of broken barnwood rose twenty feet into the sky. Rain and indifference had collapsed the barn decades ago and only chunks of the foundation remained. Those who had stacked the wood, once-great planks and beams of spruce, had long since moved away from the river, and were now dead or dead inside from work that was invisible and meant nothing. What a terrible way to die.

Before they left, they never burned the pile. Why? Why leave that behind? They had stacked it after all. I almost have half a mind to trespass and burn the pile on my own. I’d put a call out to the hummingbird I saw fly through fire not far from here and request an encore performance.

I want to know why they didn’t have a final burning of the pile, of a life, and settle the account with the land. A final six-pack in the smoke. I want to know why the only thing left in the field was a bullet-ridden metal chair covered in the most beautiful rust imaginable.

Why are there boats covered in blackberries? Why are there swing sets tilted in overgrown yards? Why are there Cadillacs in the weeds? Why are there RVs sunk to their axles in mud?

There are humans around us like this. We can see them if we look closely. They are beyond regrowth, let alone reconditioning or repurposing. They have gone to seed and the seeds are sterile and will do nothing later notch themselves into the earth.

Why are so many Americans going to seed?