Looking up at the sky I see two sets of contrails and two planes, one with contrails, one without. How many planes have passed overhead?
I’m sitting back as the sun sets, a breeze picking up and catching me. The pale sky is empty, the roads silent for now. Looking up I see a white line, finite and fully formed. I start to think I must be in a bubble. As I watch, I notice its slow transit of the sky above me, a sky borne javelin, widening and dropping – propelling forward. Will it fall upon me?
I think of a million different words, myriad ideas about this transient object. I let the ideas dissipate and become, themselves, transient.
I have a question, a hypothetical situation.
You are walking through a field, miles from another person, or human contact. You come across a wild bird, a very rare wild bird; the last of its kind. Out here, it has no reason to fear a person. It is friendly and approaches you, resting upon your hand. Do you capture this bird, the last of its kind? Do you show the world what it looked like before it was lost? Or do you let it wander free, back into the wild and never to be seen again, to die free alone and oblivious?
Would you be able to live the rest of your life knowing the memory of that rare bird will die with you?
