The wooded sections on either side of the tracks between the end of Railroad Street and the bridge near Forest are the nearest bits of wild, untended land. There is a small homeless encampment down the adjacent riverbank and on the other side a storage facility and neighboring weed shop. Where I grew up in Brighton, I had acres of recreational state forest directly behind my house where I could hike, explore, and forage interesting sticks or logs. Here in town, I have the overgrown railroad tangle with its choking vines and trees of heaven. I walk with my bow saw and backpack, passing an abandoned suitcase, its contents scattered mournfully among the ballast — a shoe, a couple shirts, a large hot pink bra. The usual faded beer cans and food packaging litter the margins. Further along I locate a couple downed branches that fit my needs and carry them the few blocks to my backyard.