Words from my wet land
For Sierra magazine
After I read that Trump and his administration have removed protections for wetlands and streams across the country, I go out and walk my wet land.
My wet land is a seven-acre scrap of farmland—blueberry orchard and fruit trees—and woods in the Georgia Piedmont. It edges the road and slopes down to a low-lying place where several ephemeral streams gather and pool; at the boundary, a small creek runs. It’s rained all night, heavy winter rains. My boots squish into the spongy ground. My wet land is positively sopping. It’s lands like these that will be grabbed with regulations removed, even though one news story I read spun the original Clean Water Rule as a “power grab” by the federal government. The phrase conjured the famous tape of the President saying what he grabs. No wonder the wet places of the country are unsafe too.