We are complicated.
But it doesn't matter in the long run. We imagine ourselves at the very center, with gods and trees and oceans rotating around.
The earth whirls and reflects, we see ourselves mirrored in every sunset, every blade of grass, every animal's eye. We seem unable to see anything else.
Tiny selves, such performances we give! Such legends of our own confines.
Let it be. Let the world be.
Let the wild be.
It is not here for our admiration.
It is not here for our ownership.
It is not here for us to steward and bastardize, explain and catalog.
Without us, the wild remains, on it's own terms, and without eulogy.
It is not for us. We are for it.
It is our blood that feeds the soil, our breath that feeds the leaves, our bones so exquisitely made for chewing by wolves. The worms are happy with what's left.
Without sentiment, without grief, without remembrance. This is good.
Let it be.