Imagine the humans already departed. The buildings empty shells. The streets quiet. Voices silenced except for the shouts of two madmen with sharpened sticks poking out one another's eyes.
What right do they have to murder the birds, extinguish the seas, pluck out the tongues of whales, crush the stones into dust?
I heard a drum beating beneath the waves this morning. Or the whales were talking to one another, already mourning.
Even the pink of the clouds is priceless.