Birding didn’t kill the owl and neither did we. But suddenly my supposed love of birds felt miserably selfish. Maybe we shouldn’t have gone to Jackson, shouldn’t have exploited that great gray owl’s darkest hour. We could have stayed home and never entangled ourselves in the quiet little tragedy that played out in the woods that week. Then I wouldn’t feel guilty, wouldn’t feel pain for the plight of an owl.
Consequences of meddling with nature
