Unwitting Contributor

Trees photographed on Appalachian Trail in Massachusetts.

    A splash of red appeared. I stopped hiking, reached for my camera, and composed a photo of a red leafed tree. It was mid October. Autumn colors were approaching their peak.
    The angle of view wasn’t to my liking. I moved off the hiking trail and stood among waist high brush. My view of the tree improved. Photos were taken.
    I noticed another tree. It stood beside the red one. What a striking difference. The branches on the neighboring tree were almost devoid of leaves. Was the tree sickly or dying? Nearby trees had not yet shed their leaves.
    In past autumns, that sickly tree must have blazed with color. Maybe its seeds germinated the red tree. Nature is a cycle of birth, growth, reproduction, and death.
    Back on the trail, I muttered a curse. Burs had clung to my jacket. They had taken hold surreptitiously, while the photos were being taken. I never should have ventured off the trail.
    Removing the burs took several minutes. I tossed them aside.
    Burs plants aren’t only sneaky, they’re ingenious. By attaching their burs to animals or people, their seeds disperse across a landscape.
    While photographing nature’s cycle of growth and death, I was contributing to that cycle.