You learn a different kind of nature when you grow up in the city. If you’re lucky, you might pass lush squares of grass, unnaturally crafted and imported like beer, for the wealthy. Where accessory dogs do their tiny business and the blades are hand trimmed with scissors along the stacked brick boxes too high for stepping.
But that’s not your grass. No, you experience the tweedy plants that grow along the playground, not because they can but because they must. The weathered, walked over, exposed roots holding tightly despite their lot in life. With scruffy limbs that stab desperately towards a freedom from being ignored and finding only the sparkling shards of broken glass along the edge of cracked blacktop.
In the city, you pick feeble bouquets for your mother from the sidewalk cracks, collecting scrawny stems with delightfully bright petals and you think they are beautiful.
Nature is nothing if not audacious.