Outside my open window I hear an unfamiliar birdsong flitting from place to place. Or perhaps several birds are stringing their songs across time and space, each song an interconnecting thread of sound, reverberating through me, folding me into connection. Me, the birds; everything.

Despite my apartment’s proximity to heavy traffic, birdsong dominates, except for Tuesdays, when a crew of men arrive, armed with leaf-blowers. The blowers emit hot, gasoline-scented air which levitates the leaves upwards and away, a weekly ritual motivated by human preference. One cannot allow the leaves to encroach upon this manicured space; the concrete must remain pristine; insects and small nesting animals kept at bay.

I dislike these machines, but I’m also averse to sharing my home with palmetto bugs: palm-sized cockroaches whose populations rise without weekly leaf-blowing. At the same time, I fret over the fate of pollinators, who rely on leaf litter for survival. All of these insects have their purposes, including cockroaches, which eat termites and fertilize soil with their excretions. Here, there exists a tension between my comfort and ecological balance. This tension transcends individual choice—I could adapt to life with palmetto bugs, but our cultural urge to control nature summons the leaf blowers nonetheless.

Like me, the birds singing outside my window depend on pollinators for survival. Unlike me, they must love those giant palmetto bugs.

Beyond my balcony, invasive Kudzu vines encircle several tall trees, squeezing them dry. Last year, one kudzu-choked tree snapped in half as violently as if struck by lightning. Now dead, it teems with birds and small mammals.

Drought has parched this little patch of land. Do the birds sense drought as they sense oncoming hurricanes?  A red flag warning has replaced last spring’s rains.

My past life as a wildland firefighter has attuned me to these seasonal shifts. I fought fires from 2000-2010, when fire seasons began in April or May, except in Florida, where fires typically burn in winter.

Fire season is now a misnomer; wildfires an ongoing phenomenon. To say climate change is the sole driver of this shift is a simplification.

It is fire, not a leaf blower, that would restore this patch outside my window, transforming overgrown vegetation to ash, rejuvenating the topsoil and encouraging new growth. Fire once burned here often. The land would welcome its return, but not in drought, when fire’s heat would destroy ecosystems and human dwellings. This is nature’s duality, transformed by context. In one context, the cockroach fertilizes soil, in another, it makes humans sick.

Wildfires are only broadcast on the news when they’re destructive. But here’s another duality: for thousands of years, fires in North America burned year-round. Indigenous burning practices are well-documented.

After Europeans arrived, fire suppression became a means of preserving forests—not as ecosystems, but as crops. Fire suppression, along with climate change, has led to this dangerous age of megafires.

Fire brings everything into connection. No leaf blowers or machinery will eliminate its presence, nor should we want that to happen. A problem may also be a solution. This goes for cockroaches, fire, and nearly everything else. These tensions tremble with potential.

What thrives in the grass between street and sidewalk? What blooms from blackened soil? What possibilities do feared creatures, organisms, and elements contain? These questions offer new ways of seeing the world, and ourselves. By asking questions, we extend ourselves into the world, open, willing to be transformed.

River Selby worked as a wildland firefighter for seven years, stationed out of California, Oregon, Colorado, and Alaska. They are currently a Kingsbury and Legacy Fellow at Florida State University, where they are pursuing their PhD in Nonfiction with an emphasis in postcolonial histories, North American colonization, and postmodern literature and culture. River has spent nearly a decade researching the history of fire suppression in the United States, Indigenous fire and land-tending practices, climate change impacts, and ecological adaptations across North American landscapes. Their research is informed by their extensive field experience. River is a first generation high-school and college graduate. They hold an MFA in fiction from Syracuse University, and a BA in English and Textual Studies from the same institution, where they served as a Remembrance Scholar before graduating summa cum laude, with honors. River’s work has been published in Vox, High Country News, Bellevue Literary Review, Vice, Tricycle, and the New Ohio Review.