The Most Sensible Thing
Photo by Alexander Sinn on Unsplash
January 2025
I stand on the lawn at sunset, watching the sky transform. As blue becomes pink, the birds arrive. First, a lone crow, perches atop an oak tree, its back to me. Is the crow admiring the sunset, pondering its benevolent fate that delivered it to a place where the air is breathable, where it is not being hunted down with assault rifles, where it can live? My curiosity is interrupted by a changing of the guard, so seamless, it could only have been orchestrated and choreographed in advance. The sky fills with small birds, whose names I do not know, so I refer to them as ‘baby hooties,’ the term my son has coined for all manner of bird beings. In a swirl, the baby hooties coalesce at the canopy of the oak, and right on cue, the crow departs, the void in the branches instantly fills with the newcomers. There are plenty of other trees they could have chosen, but something about the oak demands their presence. And the crow, not needing to hoard the prized location, willingly surrenders the throne.
The baby hooties also gaze into the setting sun, with a quiet wisdom that descends to the soil where I stand. I'm certain they are aware of the plight of life on planet earth, and yet they do not stray from their mission. They do what they do every day. They fly, eat their grub, sing, and watch the sunset. They watch the sunset, not because they are oblivious to destruction, to the baptism by fire that engulfs the planet. They watch the sunset, because it is the most sensible thing to do in a time of collapse.