Nature

Elizabeth and Alexandra stepped across the deep, jungle forest. Palm tree branches tilted slightly in a soft breeze. Palmettos fanned the humid air, and their deep, dark green leaves and sharp stems bent to one side. The lush green vines decorated the branches above. Tangles of weeds cloaked the trees, and every now and then wildflowers scattered the forest floor. Wild citrus trees were here and there, bearing the sweet fruit that sprinkled the trees. The forest was bustling with business up high in the trees, where native Floridian birds cooed, squawked, yakked, and sang above. It was a perfect day for their little exploration in the jungles of central Florida. They were on the Ranch, where cattle and citrus were the produce. The Ranch was large and vast with long, yellow fields and pastures flecked with thousands of cows, the light brown, tan, charcoal black, and murky gray colored cows. They were raised and sold to make beef. There were several forests. There were woods, lines of citrus trees, and long canals that looped around the Ranch. There were even wild hogs that tore up the pastures and some people hog hunted to control the population. Elizabeth and Alexandra were cousins. Elizabeth was nine. She had short brown hair and dark brown eyes. She had freckles, was bigger built, and loved to explore the beautiful forests at the Ranch. Alexandra was thirteen. She had soft blond hair down to the center of her back. She had starry blue eyes and was thin and lithe. She also had the desire to explore. “It’s just a log” Elizabeth assured her “No it’s not,” Alexandra sad “Look!” The cousins ducked beneath a long, silver spider web, which was magnificently spun from one tree to another. A banana spider descended a couple inches, leaving a string of delicate thread behind. Alexandra was not a big fan of spiders but even she was in awe over the beautiful web it had designed. As they stepped through the forest they remained silent so the beauty and sounds of the forest could be fully enjoyed. “Look,” Elizabeth breathed as she pointed and indicated to some animal a ways off. Her face shone with excitement as she tugged on Alexandra’s shirtsleeve. “An armadillo!” Alexandra whispered. She slowly inched closer as the armadillo emerged from a thick cluster of bushes. It was small and almost looked like its middle was made of brass. It had four little legs and a short tail. Its nose was brushing the ground as if it was searching the ground for something to eat. Alexandra slowly advanced. A thrill of excitement shivered down her back. She loved animals. Snap! Alexandra stepped on a twig and it snapped in half, frightening the armadillo so that it scurried away a distance. For a while, the girls pursued it until it was completely hidden somewhere in the deep green plants that cloaked the forest. “Man!” Alexandra said. “Let’s walk over to the canal,” Elizabeth suggested. “I like to stand on the water’s edge.” “As long as we don’t run into any alligators,” Alexandra said. They pulled branches out of their way and made their way through the obstacles that blocked their path. The cousins’ feet sloshed into marshy ground and their sneakers became muddy and soaked. “Ick,” Elizabeth said as they waded across the squishy ground. They pushed through tangles of vines and branches and finally they came out onto the bank of the skinny canal. The bank was made of white sand. The water was black velvet and branches floated on the surface. Where the water was clearer, there were rings of orange, yellow, and red on the bottom. On the other side there was a large, sloping bank, and the trees on the far bank had lines across them, revealing where the water level had been after the last hurricane. The last hurricane had sure swallowed up the area, for the waterlines were at least five feet above the regular waterline on the shore. “Look at all the amazing colors in the water near the shore,” Alexandra observed. “Let’s walk along the canal,” Elizabeth said, taking off her wet sneakers and setting them on the bank. She waded in the shallow canal and let her toes wriggle in the sand. Then she and Alexandra walked along the bank, taking in the nature. The sun seeped through the shade of the forest’s trees. The girls listened to the peaceful rustle of the palm tree leaves. They kicked sand as they strolled down the canal. Suddenly, Alexandra shrieked. “What?” Elizabeth asked, as she immediately froze. “L-l-look!” she stammered. “A-alligat-ttor!” She pointed a shaking finger to a brownish lump on the far bank. “It’s just a log,” Elizabeth assured her. “No it’s not,” Alexandra said. “Look!” There was a long nose with flaring nostrils and a grin of sharp teeth. The overbite was obvious and the dark reptile’s profile was in the shape of a large head with four legs to its side and a long, powerful tail with scales rippling down its back. Elizabeth and Alexandra had seen tons of alligators on their several canoe trips and airboat rides but they had never been this close. The large alligator was about eight feet long and was only a couple yards away. The little eyes seemed to stare blankly at the girls. Of course they knew very well that alligators are frightened of humans and crocodiles are the ones to be aggressive and attack. But Elizabeth and Alexandra took one look at the dinosaur-like creature and ran. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” They did not look back. They ran down the bank, scooped up their soggy sneakers, and tore through the forest. They broke through the branches that scraped their faces, arms, ankles and knees. They screamed and ran across the wet, muddy ground and through several patches of moss. They leapt over fallen logs and sprang over palmettos. The soft whoosh of the wind’s deep breaths that rustled the

Michael’s eyes, the biggest, bluest eyes imaginable, glazed over with absolute ecstasy as he beheld the sand-crusted sea treasure sprawling in his hand. The creature squirming on the toddler’s pink palm writhed and stretched, its legs curling as they reached towards the weak, cloud-strewn blue sky—slowly, painfully—until its motions became too much, and it lay still, defeated. Michael plopped himself down in the grainy white sand as I looked on. He prodded his find with a chubby little finger and at its twitching response positively squealed in delight. His giggles drew the gazes of other beachgoers, and they beamed at the child while some restrained their own teary-eyed kids. The parents with particularly difficult charges gave the twisting, screaming young people of whom they were in charge looks that clearly said, “Why don’t you stop whining and behave like that darling angel over there?” Indeed, Michael looked angelic, his white-blond hair falling in those stunning eyes of his, as he sat placidly on the beach with his discovery, while behind him green-blue, foam-crested waves gurgled and frothed blithely But the water was deceiving, I knew; it masqueraded as a little bit of relief from a scorching afternoon, when really it was a claimer of lives, shoving innocent beings into the rays of a haze-blurred sun, then receding with a mirthless chuckle. I took a step towards my brother, my footing uneven, and began to plan my argument. Michael knew me well enough to guess my intentions, and he scrambled to his feet with a cry of, “No! He’s mine.” The starfish were suddenly there, all around us: dozens of them. Hundreds “But Michael,” I reasoned in the voice I reserved especially for him, “Michael, if the starfish doesn’t go back in the water, he’ll die.” Michael’s glistening, round eyes narrowed in suspicion, as if he was unsure about trusting me. Michael understood the concept of death—to him, dead meant the caterpillars he collected back home when they stopped crawling up his arm and simply quit moving. Michael knew enough to figure out that if his little ocean dweller were to die, it would cease to be of any amusement. His mind made up, Michael flung the five-legged invertebrate back to the sea. It landed with a soft flump in the wet brown sand close to the water, and the next wave gobbled it back up to where it belonged. Michael shrieked in glee, possibly because this was one of the few times I was actually permitting him to throw something. He reached up and clutched my palm, his tiny pale hand appearing even paler in the grasp of my slender, browned fingers. “Come on, dister,” Michael urged me, once again failing to produce an adequate “s” sound at the beginning of his spoken word. He tugged at my arm and began to bound over the sand, spewing white clouds that wafted into nonexistence behind him. We ran the length of the Block Island beach until Michael’s short legs couldn’t support him anymore, after which I hoist- ed him onto my shoulders. He bounced around from his perch, crying, “Wook, wook!” whenever he saw something of interest—a seagull feeding its babies on the top of a scraggly, grass-topped dune, a lone sailboat dipping and diving on the horizon. Our destination was still obscured in the distance by the heat rising from the sand: a clump of black rocks cluttering the beach like dozing giants. Soon the ceaseless grumble of the ocean lulled both my brother and me into a sense of quiet tranquility, and we absorbed our surroundings silently, like insignificant sponges with pores to our minds and our hearts. Before we came to the rocks, it started to happen. The starfish were suddenly there, all around us, tumbling from the white-topped waves into our midst: dozens of them. Hundreds. Michael got down from my shoulders and took it all in, while his eyes—black ink blots in samplings of sky—saw in a way no adult had ever been able to see. What we saw was life, so much life that the beach pulsed and throbbed with it. But there was death, too. I scooped up a starfish at my feet; it was large, with lean, pimpled arms that had lost the will to move. Turning it over, I observed its underside, with the myriad, miniscule tentacles, oozing out to stick straight up in the air. They were waving and elongating, frantic. And I realized: the starfish was pleading, simply imploring for its release, and for me to let it live. I could almost see it, then—the faint line etched ever so carefully between being alive and . . . not being at all. I was suddenly and staggeringly filled with an overwhelming sense of power. Life was in my hand, and it was my choice whether I wanted to sustain it or toss it away I had a choice, and it may not have been one that affected things on a global scale, but it would affect me, who I was as an individual, and it would affect the little bit of living matter squirming in my hand. I had the choice, the freedom, to do what I wanted with something alive and real. So I took the starfish to a tide pool, where it glided in the misty water to plaster itself on the bottom of a rock festooned with algae. I got no thank-you, no acknowledgement at all; but I felt better inside, somehow more . . . alive . . . as if preserving a life had increased the intensity of my own. But maybe I was just over-thinking things. So, who really cared about the existence, or lack thereof, of a purple starfish among millions? That’s easy. The starfish cared. Michael bustled about the crowded beach, flinging creatures in the general direction of the water; I assisted him at a distance. Some were visibly gone, baked by the afternoon sun. And when I would come near