A Sneak Peak

Some day — a year from now, or a century, or an eon — the fiddler will play his final tune, and the dancers will retire from the floor. The last man on earth will bury the second last, and then die alone in his emptiness, and history will cease its brief journey through measured time.

But the world will take no notice of his departure; it will continue without benefit of anthropological participation.

For the future of our planet does not lie with this fragile species, the human race. The day of our destruction was ordained at the moment of our birth. We have ourselves devised the method of our ruin as our abilities outpaced our understanding — as our wisdom lagged behind our knowledge. 


While flowers will turn toward the light, men cloak their judgment in shadowed superstition. And decisions, darkly wrought, bear dreadful consequence. In the end, we shall have been only as strong as our missing link. 

Though trampled grass will right itself, and decapitated flowers will bloom again, all evidence of our passage will be erased. Untended treasures will be magpied away, while the wind will carry off any pitiful scraps of paper we may have left behind as testimony to our brief sojourn. Lost coins and keys and keepsakes will work their way, over the years, deep into rich black soil, never to be seen again. And the earth will forget the indignities with which we have defiled her. 

Rejoice, damned creatures; and take comfort. Celebrate what is and what has been and what will be no more. Be content in the knowledge that, long after your frantic dance has ended, the wild flowers of Veridian Meadows will endure.