by Avery Uslaner

Created on: April 09, 2010

As I walked through the city on the way to the park, a lighted sign outside of a bank informed me that it was only six degrees centigrade. It was half past four in the afternoon as I sat down on the cold metal bench at the southern end of America the Beautiful Park. To my left, the sun seemed to hover over the mountains. The sky was a solid pale blue; the only clouds in sight joined the sun over the mountains. The long shadows which filled the park threatened to disappear in the dimming afternoon light. The park was clean, and the cool temperatures seemed to enhance the lazy serene feeling which had become the dominate feeling as I walked into the park.

The looming mountains to the West seemed to project their natural beauty down onto the surrounding valley. Although aware of all the unnatural human chaos that surrounded me, I felt withdrawn from it, closer to the mountains than I really was. Three Canada Geese tromped through the dead but well cut grass on the far side of the field. The grass reminded me of the recent budget cut for the maintenance of city parks and I figured that one must be one of the few to still be serviced. As my thoughts shifted to the city my ears became aware of the constant buzz of traffic coming from the nearby highway. What a typical American I was to have not even noticed the sounds of the highway. I’m so used to hearings such sounds that it had become “natural” to me. I did not feel guilty or regretful however, as I depend on that highway just as much as everyone else who was driving by at the time. I can’t expect highways to disappear whenever I want to experience a raw, untainted sense of nature and at the same time have them around whenever I want to drive to the store.

What did bother me, on the other hand, was the coal fired power-plant not 250 yards behind me as I sat on that blue bench. Billows of steam wafted up from the plant, obscuring the mountains profile. It seemed disgusting to have such a dirty producer of energy coughing up its waste into what otherwise was such a stunning scene of majestic wonder. The author of our nation’s treasured poem America the Beautiful had been penned her masterpiece while gazing down on this very spot.

The temperature had dropped by that time and I soon realized that I was being someone unreasonable and at least hypocritical to wish the power-plant out of existence. I wanted to go back to my dorm and warm up by the heater, warmth that was being created by

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