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I start to tremble but keep going, it’s too late now, you have touched her, branded her, pressed your human self upon her. What a hateful thing.
Her beak is red like she’s dipped it in blood. It turns her strong in my mind.
“Aren’t all the Irish poets?”
What if you die on this journey, like the others? My meager attempts to find meaning in the end of my life will come to nothing. I wonder if this matters. I wonder if there is meaning in any death, ever. There has been meaning in the deaths of the animals, but I am no animal. If only I were.
Jonathan Terryn liked this
Saving specific animals purely on the basis of what they offer humanity may be practical, but wasn’t this attitude the problem to begin with? Our overwhelming, annihilating selfishness? What of the animals that exist purely to exist, because millions of years of evolution have carved them into miraculous being?
