The poem follows a walker through a patch of woods, noticing small signs of human presence. The glossy orange paint marking the property line covers old hatchet scars, so the land is shown to be owned and measured, even though the trees themselves don't care. Beyond the line, the view looks just the same, which quietly suggests how arbitrary the boundary is.
The mood turns more personal in the middle. A "leave no trace" sign meets the speaker's admission that only their footprints are left where spring beauties once bloomed. The speaker seems a little guilty, aware that even a careful visitor changes the place they love. The tone is reflective and gently rueful rather than angry.
The ending shifts to something brighter. Leaf miners have eaten into the black locust leaves, but the damage lets the sky show through. Loss becomes a kind of beauty, and the poem closes on quiet, observant acceptance.