This morning, I went to a trail near Pikes Peak to hike and look for birds with one of my friends. Whenever I go birding, I always find myself far more attentive to my surroundings than usual. I notice little sounds and flashes of movement, and crane my neck to stare up into trees. I notice other things too, like the plants and the flowers. Or, if I’m high enough, the surrounding landscape. This morning I peered east and surveyed the vast footprint of Colorado Springs, a strange constellation of concrete and brick scattered across the foothills and plains. I thought about the contrast between the mountains, which conveyed permanence and age, and the city, which felt far less foundational. I noticed some deer walking around the trails near me, and thought about how significantly we have reduced the habitat of this animal, how it has to scrape out a strange living in this strange environment, constantly penned in by cars and highways and walls.

I also thought about how, in my definition of the word, nothing about the city and the landscape I was surveying was “unnatural”. We too are a species on this planet, converting its raw materials into things we can use. We may have evolved certain qualities that our fellow animals do not possess, but that does not fundamentally and irreconcilably divide us from them. I tried to associate the large jutting rocks of Garden of the Gods with the buildings downtown. Both are hard, durable structures coming from the earth. Both cast shadows. How much more “unnatural” are the buildings than the rocks, if both sprung from processes on this planet? I don’t think I quite reached a comfortable answer to this, as I still feel that human made things have a strange and distant quality when compared to other aspects of the planet. But it was a fun thing to think about as I hiked and listened to the birds.