It's 70 days now, since the spill. I had hoped that maybe, somehow, soon, the damage could be at least halted, what with all the people working on it. Now I don't think it will; even stopping the flow of new oil, while essential, will not stop the snowballing consequences of what is already floating ashore, or clogging the ocean floor. It's too late; the horse is stolen, butchered and turned into glue.
I stop to look at the hermit crabs and anemones in the clean water of my aquarium, and it hurts; I saw a photo here of hermits under the oil. Are we going to eventually have nothing left alive, except our lonely captives?
I'm finding it harder and harder, these days, to celebrate the beauty and variety of our world. Everywhere I look, the machines are at work, digging, destroying, breaking, burying, paving, poisoning. Today's casualty was an old farmhouse surrounded by tall trees; as we turned our corner, we saw a truck sitting in the new scar. The house and trees are gone. The birds that nested there, the tribe of cross spiders that webbed the hedge, the squirrels; all dispossessed, or worse, buried in the rubble.
What are we doing? Do we not see? What are we bequeathing to our grandchildren?
I can't write any more. Go look at the photos.
Vote for tomorrow. Vote green. We mumble the words, anyhow. Yay us.