I should feel at home here. Theres a sense of quiet, comfort, oneness with nature. It's a conservation area. But I look around and feel there is something odd, something off. Around me are minor woodlands, wetland sloughs, old agricultural fields, but much of it was recently industrial and waste areas. Some new, but struggling, trees grow. Brush and light vegetation cover the surface with a visual membrane. But even this admittedly luscious covering fails to effectuate a sense of continuity that I expect.  The thin ground cover is easily scrapped away with a finger, a stick or scarred by a truck tire. Rocks are often not rocks, but broken pieces of concrete, chips of marble slabs from kitchens and structural elements of buildings destroyed, dumped here, and now moved again. 

Lying low and flat, just a few feet above sea level at it's highest points, the island’s most distant industrial areas, still active, are within sight.  The surface under my feet is a deep and lush green. Yet even light walking can now leave a track of damage. Feelings of peace and calmness are undone by a single downward glance.