They think that’s what we are—some sort of soundless thing that’s so beautiful it need not be heard. They think we’re so observational that we don’t need words, that all we need is to fly. They think we’re so magnificent that all we need is to soar above all of them, watching—waiting for the right time to return home. Do they know that we eat? Do they know that we kill? The only thing graceful about us is our ability to seek and destroy—destroy the lives of the innocent rodents that scatter when they finally notice us a little too late.
Yeah, wise. Of course. I mean, sure, some of us are probably intellectually outranking the rest of us—just like they are (the humans, I mean). But no, none of us are wise. Just because we sit on trees watching does not make us wise—we’re looking for dinner, that’s it. That’s all we’re doing. We’re not looking out over the beautiful world or contemplating anything vast and deep, or wondering why we’re stuck in such ridiculous forms instead of being very successful as humans—we just want food. Why don’t they understand that? Why don’t they understand we just get hungry?
Noble wouldn’t define any of us—we wouldn’t help you if you were in trouble, we have no sense of dictatorship, we wouldn’t honour you if our life depended on it. Why should we? We live for ourselves—we live for the sake of living. We don’t care about you or each other—no, we just care about ourselves. And why shouldn’t we? If we didn’t then we’d be dead, feasted on like the prey we catch every night. No, we are not noble. We are malicious and feed on whatever is smaller than us, coughing up their bones and feathers and fur, leaving them with no dignity. We don’t care.
We are just as peaceful as humans—which is to say we’re not. We attack, we diminish, we obliterate whole families. They think that’s peaceful? Ha, of course they would, they’re humans. Humans know nothing of peace. We are not peaceful, yet we know of it—we can see it around us sometimes. When the sun is nearly gone, and we’re waiting to fly and feast, we can sometimes see the peace—the families gathered together—squirrels nibbling nuts, rats eating the insects, the small baby birds feeding upon worms for possibly the first time. But then the peace is torn apart and set on fire as those families become our dinner. Even the best owls don’t know peace, for even a good man goes to war.
Humans think we’re regal—that we’re like king, queens, princes, princesses . . . that we’re some kind of magical kingdom. We barely even acknowledge each other besides screeches and hisses and screams and hoots. And that only happens when we want a mate. That only happens when we declare our territory. If we were all regal, then we would respect—instead we kill anyone who dares enter our domain. No, we are not regal, for we are not capable of compassion.