Growing up in West Texas is a privilege. The Desert Southwest is a fine teacher. Take tumbleweeds (please!) The windwitch is a thing that every West Texan is familiar with. Heck, many of us have been bowled over a time or two by ones as big as us, when we were young. We’ve all been tasked with the chore of hauling them out of the yard and ditch, pulling them out of the chain link fence, tossing them in the dumpster, and otherwise dealing with the nuisance that they present. Having dealt with that invasive species all of our lives, we in the West learn a few things about nature.

Tumbleweeds, you see, are the mature form of what is called the Russian Thistle. As the name suggests, it is native to Central Asia, not the Americas. Like Texans, the thistle is a hardy creature, able to survive—and even flourish—in harsh conditions. But unlike many native plants, the thistle doesn’t have roots. Oh, it has a single, narrow—but deep—taproot, to reach and grasp for the best nourishment as fast as possible. Our Texas plants, like our beloved Mesquite, spread their roots deep, too, but they also spread them wide, and much slower. They take the time to become one with the land, taking what nourishment they need, but at the same time working and aerating the soil, giving purchase to and sharing space with other things; grasses, insects, and animals benefit from the mesquite as it benefits from them. But not the thistle. It only takes and spreads. It doesn’t want to be part of the land, it only wants to be.

Growing up in Odessa, I learned in school that my town was named by Russian immigrants who thought that the plains of West Texas reminded them of their home in the Ukraine. I always assumed they must have been the ones who brought the Russian Thistles! Regardless, over the years I learned that people are a lot like plants. Some have roots, and share the land with an eye toward their common good, knowing that only through patience and cooperation can they ensure the survival of their children, of their very species. Some, like the thistle, just reach and grasp and suck at the land, preferring to take the easy road, growing no roots and instead focusing their efforts on making and spreading seeds—a process in which quantity, not quality, is the primary goal.

Remember how I said, that the tumbleweed is the mature form of the Russian Thistle, not the “dead” form? See, the thistle, when it has produced its seeds, does indeed die inside, and breaks off of its deep—but weak—root. But it’s not technically, biologically, dead. That’s because, despite being dried and shriveled and broken, it’s still seed-bearing. Like so many other plants, it dies to live. But it knows that, as its many seeds will have the same lack of roots, it must always move on, always drift, always blow into other, foreign lands, having already sucked its host soil dry in its unyielding need to throw as many offspring off of it as possible on its rampage across the pastures. Mesquite, Sage, Cactus, Algerita—they all plant roots, work the soil, give shade and food and shelter and water to the creatures around them. Heck, even the Dandelion, which, like the Thistle, has few roots and many seeds, at least “pays its dues” by being incredibly useful. Every child of the Desert Southwest knows the benefits of dandelion tea. Many of us used to even pick and eat dandelions straight from the ground.

Now, that’s not to say that thistle doesn’t have its uses. As it’s growing, it can provide fodder for cattle. In fact, Russian Thistle is credited with saving the American and Canadian beef industries during the Dust Bowl era, when other feed could not be grown. But the few benefits, even ones so impactful, far outweigh the many detriments of the species. Making itself useful as it is preparing to invade new soil, deplete its bounty, and displace the native populations of rooted plants if possible, is all just part of the thistle’s “long game.” The dandelion is consistently useful; the thistle is only useful until it is time for it to spread its seed.

Sure, even tumbleweeds can be a bit useful. But their detriments far outweigh their benefits. They clog up storm drains, pile up against buildings, and, because they’re so dry and brittle, make excellent kindling. That’s one of the biggest dangers. Ever see a flaming tumbleweed blowing in the wind, spreading fire all throughout the pasture? West Texans are no strangers to fire; heck, the biggest wildfire in Texas history, which is currently burning through the panhandle, might have been started by the darned things! But there’s always a bright side. The fires burn, and the weeds burn up with it. They do a lot of damage along the way. People and animals die and property is destroyed. But the native plants have roots, and are strong. They resist the fire and stand firm. And when it’s burnt out, all the thistle is gone (for a while; they always come back), and the land is cleansed, and the native plants keep growing even stronger, putting their roots ever deeper and wider, and, for a time, they are free again.