I live on a remote mountain in the Blue Ridge. We have been losing our squirrels in this intense heat. Coyote pups born in the spring can’t walk or run. Deer struggle to get up. Where I could count the number of cat birds per acre on two hands, today, it’s one hand. It’s more alone up here. We just came out of a drought. August is burning my plants. Bears around the cabin here are more interested in water than food. Acorns are small. We are trapped by heat now. Not tomorrow. Magnify that times ten for the smaller creatures. We share this planet. We do not own it – we are renters, even you in your Big house, with your Big air conditioners grinding away, we are all the morally little people who take up too much space. You are not aware of creatures living among you like spies, waiting to see what insanity you might pull next. If we kill all the birds, then we won’t have bird flu. Wrong. You can kill all the animals on the planet, but you already have bird flu. Carrier Pigeons used to roost up here. Homo sapiens want it all. Rainbow trout are now small and rare. The air is polluted from Industry in the Ohio river area, blowing smoke smack dab into our lungs. At night, the frog trees were a chorus, that tiny little guys have such a voice. I don’t have visitors. I am suspicious of your curiosity. The road is a walk, but I have plastered (you cannot miss them) no hunting and no trespassing signs all up and down the road. I have made 100 big new signs. One word. Consequences.