The Prodigal Summer

Humankind holds a special place in the world. It’s the same place held by a mocking bird, in his opinion, and a salamander in whatever he has that resembles a mind of his own. Every creature believes this: the center of everything is me. Every life has its own kind of worship. Its mockery to think that a salamander is worshiping some God that looks like a big two-legged man. To him a man’s a shadowy nuisance compared to the sacred business of finding food and a mate and making a progeny to rule the mud for all times. To themselves and one another, those muddy little salamander lives mean everything.
”Who cares if a species is lost?” Well, the loss of any species would be a tragedy to some other creatures that was depending on it. Everything alive is connected to every other by fine, invisible threads. Things that u don’t see can help u plenty, and things u try to control will often rear back and bite you.
Solitude is a human presumption. Every quiet step is a thunder for the beetle life underfoot, a tug of impalpable thread on the web, pulling mate to mate and predator to prey, a beginning or an end. Every choice is a world made new for the chosen.
The spiraling flight of moths appears haphazard only because the mechanisms of olfactory tracking are so very different from our very own. But for species that rely on the sense of smell, the organism compares points in space, moves in the direction of greater concentration successively, moving in zigzag towards the source. His scent burst onto her brain like a rain of lights causing her to know him perfectly. This is how moths speak to each other. The wrong words are impossible when there are no words.