In the midst of the valley, it is full of bones, and behold, there are very many upon the valley, and lo, they are very dry.

Spring waxes green, and I hold back. Less trekking down the steep slopes that fall eastward from the serpentine county road. During past summers, I’ve given in to the litterbugs, somewhat. I’ve put off picking up bottles or cans half-covered in poison ivy. I’ve left paper plates in a ditch if they could be sitting over a snake nest. I’ve even avoided wading into hip-high grass if I’m afraid I’ll exit with ticks and chiggers up my pants.

During winter’s final days, however, I’ve continued sliding down to clean up trash that has blown, washed, or been tossed over the edge.

A basic technique for identifying what doesn’t belong on the forest floor or valley wall is picking out contrasts. Granted, some clam shell meal boxes are black, but for the most part, the glint of aluminum, the sheen of plastic, and the bright whiteness of paper or Styrofoam give away my targets. Repetition trains my eyes, legs, and hands to head for the litter.

Litterbugs don’t hide their trash, but the forest does its best to camouflage what doesn’t belong there. Nature’s cover-up results in my half stumbling over a wine bottle buried under pine needles. It leads to my finding a large Styrofoam cup mostly concealed under a leafy fallen oak branch. I see half an inch of white! And pull forth a paper plate. Ta-dah!

Nature must silently laugh when I am deceived. I bend my knees and my back to reach down for what appears to be a corner of Styrofoam and — surprise!

In the midst of the valley, it is full of bones, and behold, there are very many upon the valley, and lo, they are very dry.

Sounds almost biblical. I’m not describing a religious experience, though. At least, I don’t think so. It’s not a mystical vision. I don’t feel called to prophesy to these bones. I’m merely surprised to see them.

Sometimes it’s a strand of vertebrae; from what creature, who can say? Sometimes a longish leg bone, probably a deer though I wonder how long a wild turkey leg can be?

Often it’s a jawbone. Samson, as you know, slew thousands with a jawbone. What died under the grasp of these jaws before they died under some greater force?

This valley of dry bones doesn’t freak me out. Bones are Nature’s litter, and it’s not my job to haul Nature’s litter out of the valley.

Like the trees that break and fall on the valley floor in a storm, the bones provide a healthy reminder of mortality.

State laws prohibit letting our bones dry in the open after we die. If a human skeleton weren’t a sign of an unsolved mystery, and if I didn’t have to watch the disappearance of the flesh, I’d kneel in homage before the bones of the men and women astonishing me from beneath the leaves.