It goes against everything our wildly humanistic tendencies tell us, grates painfully on our sensitivities. We can’t imagine it, but it isn’t impossible, whether we can imagine it or not. When we cultivate a garden, we pick the weeds. In this instance, we are the weeds, and the perfect state of the garden is not ordered rows, but disordered chaos. Nature is not as Emerson imagined it, sculpted by the hand of the creator, waiting only for our ability to interpret its divine meaning. We only want this to be true. Watch the flames from afar if we must, but don’t let our vanity convince us we can be the savior. Man as savior, pinned to two trees in the shape of a cross is an invention of man’s mind just as surely as the natural world isn’t. Embrace not knowing and accept our failure. It’s the natural conclusion of the American Conservation Movement: true conservation. Trees will fall and they will make sounds, even if we aren’t around to hear it.