THE RESEMBLANCE OF THE ENZYMES OF GRASSES TO THOSE OF WHALES IS A FAMILY RESEMBLANCE

This world, Whistle, there’s nothing for it, what can we possibly say? Cumulus sails and their endless blue ocean are a thin skin when viewed from space. Back home astronauts turn to drink or religion to shield the eyes, to cloud the vision—something was irreparable in the darkness or the largeness or the smallness they saw. This morning I watched two elephants dance the boogie-woogie. One added grace notes with its trunk, nodding its head in cool time. The other—half in, half out of the frame—shook its booty just like my friend, the best singer you’ll ever never hear because for her the stage turned into a kind of prison, like the refuge, maybe, staffed by good people who wondered how the elephants would respond to the piano’s rollicking tune, or who knew how and couldn’t wait to watch them move. This morning, these last few days have been kissed with crisp in a benevolent air kind of way. It’s spring and birds are busy and there’s a mulberry tree popping berries and the city sings in distant sirens and steady traffic thrum. Soon the sun will burn too terribly strong again and the drought we’re presently forgetting will press back into view against the bleached rocks that line the reservoir down which the water continues to crawl. This winter, up north the far north reached too far south. Here, more than three hundred million trees have died since our current thirst began. It’s impossible not to feel thirsty, Whistle, under a sky like this. When a dead tree falls, a young, new tree will eventually grow in its place, a man named Burl who works for the forestry service reminds us, trying to be encouraging. I don’t mean to be discouraging. It’s beautiful here. It’s just that fear has us in its thrall. Things are different or they’re just like they’ve always been—we’re not sure and we’re not sure which is worse. We love it when animals act like us. I mean, just look at those elephants dancing. We see it as a kind of evidence, but maybe it’s better for them to be nothing like us at all. They stop everything to mourn their dead. When choosing a direction, they engage in extensive debate. Rage follows cause. Whistle, they know when even a distant friend falls.