Given the choice between a gradually decomposing mountain of leaves destined to remain in the corner of my yard until at least 2012 or a few dozen overstuffed Hefties that could be carted off next Tuesday, I’ll always choose the decomposing mountain. Not only is it more ecologically responsible, I kind of like how the mountain looks from the kitchen window.
Month after month its sagging crest reminds me just how transitory life is— how earthly our existence and how ephemeral. Now and again, this mortal rotting heap even motivates me to log off of the Internet.

Mind you, I’m no more morbid than I am lazy, and I’m far from a poet, never mind a philosopher. But there is a strange, almost transcendental comfort in watching nature run its course, even as I sit directly in its path.

I prefer a dying tree to a stump, you see, and a dead one to my personal welfare. Thus did it take me two-and-a-half years to cut down the lifeless pine near the back of the house, just outside the master bedroom. Despite the looming threat — and my occasional sleeplessness on stormy nights — I enjoyed listening to the woodpeckers too much to call in the chainsaws any sooner.

I also prefer a stump to a hole in the ground, which is why when we finally did take down the towering deadwood I opted not to have the workmen grind its lowly remains. They could have and gladly would have — they had the machinery. But soon enough the stump will disappear anyway, I figure, enveloped in a wreath of prickly vines and crowned with lichen. Moreover, so long as I don’t power up the weed whacker, some other volunteer will probably spring forth in the same spot, suggesting that when life finally chops me down and tills me under, I might at least give root to a crabapple.

A sapling shoot amidst a knee-high cluster of dandelions and scrubby tendrils possesses its own verdant beauty, whether it overshadows the centipede or not. In other words, the grass is always greenest when you simply let it be. And if it isn’t, well, I’m not busting out the Roundup just so the rest of you can pretend the world is your fairway. If it isn’t yet obvious, I’m partial to the rough. Besides, it all goes brown eventually, even if you use Miracle-Gro.

And yet the tangled expanse of our own backyard is constantly abuzz, even as the days grow colder. Why only two weeks ago I saw three snakes in a single afternoon, the longest a yellow-and-black eastern garter sunbathing on the flagstones behind my garage, the shortest so quick to the compost heap I didn’t catch his name. My wife now insists we leave the outside light on if we’re coming home after dark, but I take pride in the ecosystem emerging from my horticultural laissez-faire, even if it won’t get us off the neighborhood watch list.

We’ll be receiving another mildly aggressive letter from the homeowner’s association any day now, I’m sure, but that’s OK. I plan on doing something about the yard regardless.
Some cool fall morning, once I’m done contemplating life and death and my eventual rebirth as an ornamental fruit tree, I will pull on my gloves and pick up a rake. Indeed, as the leaves begin to fall in earnest, I look forward to getting outside. In the meantime, however, I’m happy just to sit by the kitchen window, contemplating last year’s mountain, putting off this year’s labors and otherwise tracking the progress from the rotten to the rough.

Craig Brandhorst is a freelance writer. To read more  visit his blog at deconstructionfables.wordpress.com.