For a hundred milennia, we have hunted here.
Bison, elk, sloth, woolly rhino–all have fallen before us.
Our spears bite from an arm’s throw away.
Nothing can survive us.
Nothing but them–these skinny, strange ones, these ones who eat bugs and eels and leaves and fish and anything they can get into their mouths. They look like us, but they do not hunt the great game. They chatter always, fritter away their time with beads and shells and epics of nothing. They only half-care about the world and more than half-care about things that aren’t even and could never be.
They do not hunt as we do.
Especially in these times.
The glaciers are retreating.
The mammoth herds are thinning.
The earth does not give up her bounty as once she did.
Only supreme hunters can survive.
Only we can kill the few mammoths that remain.
Look at these poor others, who eat their bugs and worms and nibble on tall grass and lick bark. Never did they know how to live, and surely not now– moss-eaters, coal-drawers, song-singers.
They spend days chasing down worthlessness.
We spend every hour hunting the few beasts left to us.
The world is changing. Only the greatest will survive.
I weep for these chattering folk. They talk and draw and make, but what do they kill?
How will they inherit the Earth?August 26th, 2010
Topic: Uncategorized Tags: None