The ghosts of Bishop Woods

A beautiful, lifeless Utopia

On this sunny Friday afternoon in late-September, I sit on a perfectly-manicured and pesticide-ridden lawn that feels more like a graveyard (albeit a beautiful one) than a wood. A fair wind blows—not quite howling—but enough to rustle the leaves as if in a faint, distant whisper. I recall, during my first stint here four years ago, the lush green trees and other flora…