Maybe adaptability is a curse for humankind. We tend to adjust to everything, but, most of all, to our surroundings.
Every day, I drive the same route into work and I leave a nice suburban neighborhood to drive into a kind of rural/suburban one. I drive past farms and past open fields dotted with grazing horses. I also see rows of corn and vines that grow like tonal phrases over music staff fences. I see them, but from an asphalt road and from behind a dead grey guardrail.
We adapt -- we let the ugliness of street signs and power lines and guardrails become a "given." We enjoy the graciously green moments we're permitted.
But today, I briefly imagined the landscape before me absent of roads and metals and wires. I envisioned a time before the New World had been beaten into submission by European arrogance. I imagined uninterrupted green hills and pathless stretches of trees, their silence uninterrupted, as well -- no motors and wheels whizzing through; no jet engines rumbling above; only occasional sounds...ones that fit into the chords composed by God; sounds so natural that they are now poetic cliches: the wind; the rain; the rivers; the animal sounds of life and death.
I imagined this and my throat truly tensed in the prelude to a good cry that never really came -- because there is work to do; because I am too old for that; because I adapted, just like you, to the ugliness that has become a subconscious veil between me and the Good Earth.