[thoughts from ~burning woman~ by Sha’Tara]
By way of introduction, a telling quote:
“… you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.”
— Mary Oliver, “The Poet With His Face in His Hands,” New and Selected Poems, Vol. 2 (Beacon Press, April 15, 2007)
A brilliant observation, that.
Nature doesn’t care how you feel, or what you’re personally going through.
You cry, its song continues.
You lose, it neither wins nor loses.
You twist your ankle on the tennis court, it flies above your head, laughing in the wind.
You tear it out of your precious garden, it returns with a vengeance after the first rain of August.
Your car breaks down on the side of the mad-rush freeway
(and although it’s quite OK that no passing human should care and offer to lend a helping hand – after all, you have your cell phone)
it is galling that a crow should laugh from a lamp post or that a red-tailed hawk should circle the open skies above and not even see you.
Man, the penultimate narcissist can’t abide nature’s uncaring attitude.
It’s fine for man not to give a damn about nature,
(to harness it, exploit it, torture it, kill it, consume it, whether for pleasure of profit)
but for nature to be so uncaring of man’s problems,
is not acceptable.
Something must be done.
There is but one solution:
if man is to truly rule,
nature must go.