In the middle of the Harbert Preserve is a plain where few trees grow. In the summer the soil is chalky, cracked. In the winter, it is a fine slippery clay on whose paths water collects. The preserve has wetlands and an oak grove, too, but I think the clay plain is my favorite. Each of its tiny evergreens seems remarkable, and I imagine the beautiful porcelain that a visionary could conjure out of its ground.