BIRDS

Birds sing high on a wire, in the trees, from rooftops. They speak of things unbeknownst to me, in a language I don’t understand. Methinx if I were made privy to their ways, I still would not understand. Birds have their own world. It is not the human world, certainly not the human world beholden to the machine.

I think we once understood the birds, but got so saturated in our manifest destiny against nature, we lost the desire and, inevitably, the ability. The birds became not fellow creatures, but abstractions, something to be counted, a resource, something to control. 

The false idol of human supremacy rules our fetid souls. 

This is a sad lot. One day, when we tire of it all, and walk away from the machine, we will fly back into the lives of the birds and they will welcome us home.