Triple R

Wren walks about the field, unaware of the soft things she’s crushing beneath her feet. The mountains are silent, besides the crunch of her footsteps.
There was something else there, though she didn’t know. The things she crushed under her feet were alive. Were, being the opportune word.
Life came and went in the mountains but was always recycled eventually, much like the tin cans Wren tried so hard to collect from parks to preserve them. This mountain had no care though. It knew how to take care of itself, and how to break down the invaders to its ecosystem.