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“Before me lies a slope of wild grasses, saturated in the copper light of early autumn. Insects dabble in wild asters and Queen Anne’s lace, and animal trails wind through the dense greenery. But just where the terrain should plunge steeply through a woodland of maple, beech, cherry, and ash trees, it flattens out like a gigantic tennis court or helicopter landing pad. What just a few weeks earlier and for many thousands of years before had been a hillside in rural northeastern Pennsylvania has been sliced in half by a five–acre concrete slab. It is, in fact, the site of a new gas pad.” Trebbe Johnson shares more in this essay on giving thanks to wounded places.