In this issue, you'll read about Naples painter Jonathan Green, who this month hosts his famous annual reception for visiting art luminaries, local leaders and interesting newcomers. Naples-and Green's career-have come a long way since he and his partner, Richard Weedman, moved here 20 years ago and bought a little ranch house on 25 acres out in the southeastern wilds of Collier County. Green has gone from struggling artist to international personage, and the house has become a sleek showcase for his works, which now sell for around $45,000 and sometimes much more. But he still cherishes the solitude and beauty of his property, where the night sky, far from city lights, shines with a million stars, and bobcat, deer and even an occasional bear are as likely to show up as starstruck art collectors.

These days, few of us see bears or deer in our backyards, even in places where they were common a decade or two ago. But I recently had a wildlife sighting at home. We're one of the last little cottages left on our barrier island. Last year, the fishing captain next door sold his property to a developer, who replaced the modest house and surrounding fig and mango trees with two mega-mansions that fill almost every inch of the lot. George and I used to see raccoons scrambling over the captain's fence to prowl our yard by moonlight, but the new, eight-foot-high stucco wall seems to discourage them.

But one night a few months ago, I heard our cat, Tom, a gentle Himalayan who loves to patrol the borders of our tiny backyard, yowling outside. I ran to open the back door, and Tom streaked in, tufts of white fur floating behind him, while a big, reddish-colored cat flew over the stucco wall. A few nights later, a bone-chilling growl that rose into a banshee shriek startled us out of bed. On the inside of our glass-paned door was Tom, emitting that terrible noise, and on the outside was the red cat. They were standing on their hind legs and shadow-boxing. The cat saw us and fled, but not before I noticed its tawny spots and powerful haunches, which again launched it over the wall. "That is no ordinary cat," said George.

I realized he was right when I opened our island newspaper and read that a bobcat had been reported by several residents in our part of the key. Someone had even taken a picture, which showed the cat we'd seen, right down to its spots, standing on an elegant pool terrace and lapping the water. I haven't seen the cat again, but that image haunts me-a last, lonely survivor, forced to forage in this strange and sterile new landscape we're creating.

I've been thinking about Green's property and about that bobcat as we work on this second annual environmental issue, which celebrates the biodiversity of Southwest Florida. That theme was inspired by photographer Carlton Ward Jr., who wrote the introduction to a photo essay in this issue that features images-including some of his-of the amazing variety of life in our region. I first came across Ward's stunning photographs in last October's Smithsonian magazine in a story about the creatures of Gabon's rainforests. The 28-year-old, eighth-generation, native Floridian is documenting biodiversity around the world, and he says some of the rarest-and most beautiful-life forms anywhere are right here at home.

Many Southwest Floridians agree; witness the wide support for the Conservancy of Southwest Florida, whose annual environmental award-winners are profiled in this issue, and even more telling, the willingness of voters in both Lee and Collier counties to tax themselves to acquire environmentally sensitive lands and critical habitats. Those initiatives, which passed in 1996 in Lee and in 2002 in Collier, have already protected thousands of acres that might otherwise have been developed.

I suspect, however, that time has already run out for my bobcat. As Jon Thaxton, the environmentally minded chairman of the Sarasota County Commission, once told me, wildlife sightings can lull us into complacency. "At first, after development, wildlife persists, and we mistake that for coexistence," he explained. "But the animals don't die right away. We won't see the true effects of our development until the next generation." That means we have to act now if we want to preserve at least some of the region's rare and precious life-and landscapes-for generations to come.