Underneath

To replace a faulty sewer line, we had to first remove the topmost layer of sidewalk, which was done by picking up the sectioned slabs at their seams with the claw of an excavator, and then letting them drop down and shatter under their own weight; otherwise the slabs needed to be struck with a sledgehammer, which is admittedly exhilarating but very hard on the body. The pieces could then be picked up by a Bobcat and hauled out. 

After the sidewalk was removed, it was then necessary to dig a trench for a couple hundred of feet, which was 6 feet down at the deepest point, where sewer mains continued to the public sewer. One of the more striking aspects of this dig was the condition of the soil itself, underneath the removed walkway. Other than a few scurrying spiders on the surface, and some worms and larvae nestled against the various tree roots, there was no sign of any insects whatsoever. 

The soil was dead. There was no need for any bombs to go off, or poisons to be spread, and there was no natural desertification present. However this was a sort of desertification in the end, a desertification achieved by the spreading of a dominant form of life as a self contained and delineated layer over another lower layer, smothering the latter in turn. 

Because in the soil were all kinds of water pipes and humming electrical wires carrying electricity and media data. And of course on the surface was a vibrant community full of playing children and music and barbecues, among other things.  

But what does it take for those topmost layers to be periodically renewed? Of course, it requires a living soil that is in this case completely displaced and separated from the topmost layer, where it is maintained at a distance, and where its products are trucked in and spread about. But this space and this separation itself is contributing to a great strain, and all of the strata of living things are exhausting each other.