In an orchard during the morning
A smoke billows past the skeletal forms of the trees, a toxic mist that reeks of burnt garbage. I look across the fence and see that the neighbor is piling trash upon his pile. Every day they add to their refuse, and the mound of charred rubble grows. Litter is strewn about the yard, waiting for a breeze to carry it my way. I wonder many things about the neighbor. Most of us have our garbage taken away; most of us do not wish to see the filth that we create. The neighbor does not care if his garbage swallows his yard, or if his children play with burnt paper plates. He does not care about the toxins he puts into the air, nor does he care what we think about his mound. In many ways, he is the perfect representative of the human race.
By the river, watching the flood waters rise
The waters lap over the edge of the road, bringing a tangle of trash. Pieces of rope, plastic bottles, and cigarette butts slosh around my feet. I sit on a tree stump and watch as the cars splash through the muck, heading to work. The air smells of diesel exhaust and rotten fish. I peer into the waters of the river and wonder how anything could live in that fetid mixture of mud. Out on the waters, a fishing boat rocks with the current. Someone will eat of the fruit of the river. Someone will eat the mutants that these waters spawn.
In the woods after dusk
I smell the deer before I see it. Below, she walks into the faint light, a delicate creature, tentatively sniffing the air. I aim my rifle and place my finger on the trigger. Three-hundred years ago, this creature feared mountain lions and wolves; now she must dodge cars and watch for humans in the trees. Her contemporaries have vanished as the woods have been replaced by endless fields of corn and soy bean. Someone must kill the survivors; someone must wear the hood of death. After she dies, it will all die, and everything will be replaced by artifacts of our consumption. I murmur no words of apology as I pull the trigger.
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