If Every Life Is Precious

“All creatures great and small.”

“Horton hears a Who!”

“Cats and rats and alligators as sure as you’re born.”

And victims of catastrophe.

We were walking in a field, marching, swathing, not picking our way at all. The dogs leaped and bounded. In the trees that surround the meadow were a thousand birds of all different feathers. Baby bugs in wads of fly snot dot the grass. Hoppers flicker and spring like firecrackers. A deer bounds from the scrub and breaks stride over a fence and the dogs chase. They’ll never catch it, but they strut and bark like a pack should. What commotion.

And victims of catastrophe.

We tumble in the grass and green, translucent six legged beetles scuttle, leaping from our havoc. A bare patch finds your face plant, laughing and you toss tufts of straw, and web, and lives, flying in handfuls. Can’t you feel it? The alive and the ebb? The rumbling of life—the bubbles and foam of all?

So how do I not go nuts?

Because every life is precious. Every life breathes into the canvas, the bubble wrap, and it fills and pops, pops and fills, and I can’t claim dominion on either side—neither good nor evil—it pops and fills. I immerse in the experience of life, the gift, the ride, to fill and then pop and join the percolation. It’s a creed.

If Every Life Is Precious © 2011 Gaboo. Read more observations by Gaboo, click his tag.


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