There was once an owl who had built her nest atop the highest tree in the forest. She had survived countless seasons and was now approaching the winter of her life.
From her vantage point, she could see not only the forest but also where the land opened up revealing the structures of those strange and monstrous creatures that had shown themselves to be such poor stewards of the earth.
She remembered the days when those who walked upon two legs yet had no wings showed respect for the land and took only what was necessary to live. But then came the interlopers who enslaved these indigenous people and plundered the land taking more than they needed due to their greed.
She had noticed through the years that the interlopers who exhibited the basest characteristics of their kind had wormed their way to the top of their pecking order. She also noticed that the hierarchy they now served whether on the job or in the street was militaristic in nature. This was hardly surprising to her as they were a nation constantly at war.
She could see the horrific outward manifestations of a species out-of-control in so many different ways, but none affected her more than the forest fires that seemed to get worse every year.
The owl had previously watched when the trees had been harvested beyond their ability to reproduce. The effects of clear cutting that followed had taken its toll until the polarized mind of these same sad creatures had pushed for shutting down the forests completely, allowing too much of a renewable resource to die which in turn made the forest more susceptible to fires. That many of these fires were started by the interlopers themselves was also not lost to her.
The old owl was still upset that the interlopers had used one of her feathered kin as a reason for closing the forests. These owls had become so weakened due to their “protections” that other owls had to be killed off on their behalf as they threatened to take over their habitat. In the end, the protected owls lost their ability to fly making them subject to the beasts on the ground. The owl pondered the irony of a people who had allowed themselves to be part of the same process.
Gazing through the smoke at the silhouette of the village in the distance, the old owl knew that the bipod’s path would invariably lead to complete destruction. Those who had been granted the greatest opportunity of conscious connection with the Universe had lost their way in the haze of second-hand minds.
Although it seemed that the smoke from these fires would never end, the old owl was thankful for this in some ways. She could no longer see the radiation pouring into the Pacific Ocean. Also, she could no longer see the other countries being invaded by this many-tentacle monster that continued to disrupt the tranquility of her forest.
The owl was glad that she was getting old. She no longer cared if it was the foolishness and cruelty of this invasive species that killed her or old age. She would then be able to see things from a much higher level than the top of the tallest tree.
And she’d finally be above of the haze.