Pick a city, any city. At least any of decent size. What’s decent? Oh, let’s say one that had a population of at least hundred-thousand before The Fall. Alright, now that you have something in mind, remove the people. They’re all gone. No homeowners tending their gardens. No more walkers that, by the very act of walking, keep weeds beaten back. No more cars that do the same. No city workers to pick up the trash, clean the streets, or trim the trees. No maintenance being done on anything.
It doesn’t take long before tree roots burst through the sidewalks, grass replaces carpeting, ivy climbs any surface it manages to cling to. Curious animals and birds, with no humans to fear, begin to explore the city. Their droppings bring seeds into homes. Rats nest in couches, squirrels burrow through walls, birds make nests on closet shelves that once held rarely used belongings. Worms, no longer held at bay by poisons continually sprayed over the soil, eat waste, and churn the earth.
There’s a hum to these cities. The clash between the chaos of nature and the order of civilization. When still populated, that hum was almost silent. The dominant order quelled most every attempt nature made at resisting. In the depths of a forest the hum is not felt, there’s no clash. Only peace. But here, in a city, nature has work to do. That work can be felt. Think of construction workers. You can feel, and hear, their work. Nature too can be felt and heard, but the sound and feeling is different. Instead of the violence of humanity in the throes of creation, the work of nature is a quiet rebellion. A near silent symphony. Shhh, listen. Close your eyes, find peace, open the rest of your senses. Dig your fingers into the grass, be still, and feel.