Reading Robinson Jeffers on the Beach

Cory and I were patrolling one evening. We paused on a rise above Salmon Beach. The sunset was going to be one of those odd spring sunsets, the sun not so much setting as looming, turning the clouds unearthly shades of peach. The light played on the water…

I shouldered my carbine and pulled a book from my breast pocket, a tiny volume that was one of the few non-practical books I had taken from my apartment.

“Gray steel,” I read, “cloud-shadow stained,

The ocean takes the last lights of evening.

Loud is the voice and the foam lead-color,

And flood-tide devours the sands.

“Here stand, like an old stone,

And watch the lights fade and hear the sea’s voice.

Hate and despair take Europe and Asia,

And the sea-wind blows cold.

“Night comes: night will claim all.

The world is not changed, only more naked:

The strong struggle for power, and the weak

Warm their poor hearts with hate.

“Night comes: c--…”

“Will you stop that?”

“Okay.” I put the book back in my pocket.

We look at the sunset for a bit. Then I ask him, “You never liked poems, did you?”

“Especially not that one.”

Nevermore

I came to the decision to release Vader the raven over time. During our first meetings, we'd discussed whether to ease the burden of caring for the animals by euthanizing some of them. I don't mind that nearly my entire day is spent doing animal husbandry, or that my spare minutes are spent researching and investigating how to better care for animals I am less familiar with. The real issue was whether we could maintain the high standard of living the animals deserved. In the end we euthanized none of them.

Vader's life was one that any animal and most humans would appreciate. The 22-year-old raven received meals of fruits, vegetables, nuts and meats in his bedroom, chatted amiably with neighbors during the day and slept in the cozy crux of tree limbs at night.

When I would go in to clean his enclosure and drop off his food though, I considered how enriching it would be if he could do some of his own foraging. As a hand-raised bird who knew me well, he took immediately to a new daily routine where I attached a long lease to his ankles with jesses and let him come with me as I cleaned the other birds' enclosures. He hopped excitedly when he heard me unlocking the building each morning, clucking and cordially asking, "How are ya?" I always replied, "I'm well thank you. And yourself?"

I started letting Vader poke around in the fallen leaves and sit in the lower boughs of trees. Eventually, I made him a longer leash, and then yesterday I just let him go. I opened his enclosure to "How are ya?" as usual and took him with me for our usual morning cleaning, but when it was time for me to move on, I walked Vader to his enclosure and left the door wide open. Ravens are native to Washington, there's plenty of food sources... It just seemed like he would do fine on his own.

Today I approached the bird mews with trepidation, unsure of what I'd find. I peeked into Vader's enclosure, half expecting him to be see him still sitting in the crux of his tree limbs. He wasn't there. I wasn't sure if this was good or bad. Was Vader lost, unable to find his way to his enclosure? Was he mobbed by crows and now laying injured somewhere? Or was he cleverly picking through the compost pile for choice goodies, exercising his wings and spying on us from rooftops?

After finishing my morning tasks I passed Vader's open door one last time and posed the perfunctory, "How are ya?" to the empty space.

"I'm well thank you," came the reply. I turned to the willow sapling beside the building and found Vader perched comfortably with a full crop, evidence he'd eaten a healthy breakfast. "And yourself?" he asked me.

"Great." I answered. "Really great."

Journal Entry #6

I've been a vegetarian long enough to feel determined but not so long as to have forgotten what meat tastes like.   The presence of flesh consuming zombies in my day to day life has only strengthened my resolve to continue this dietary choice. Who knew that I'd be adding "witnessed cannibalism" to my list of reasons why I don't eat meat. Cory argues it isn't cannibalism. "Zombies aren't human." It's his standing argument. His rationale for remorseless take downs, for will strengthening, for maintaining resolve in the face of such an awful situation. But no matter how reassuring he is, all I see is a human eating a human. My stomach turns every single time. In all fairness, they aren't human any more. They've changed in so many obvious ways. And in some hidden ways.

We talk sometimes about how they move different. How they act differently. The hunger and killing is one thing. But they have these new movements and a new look in their eye. It's subtle at first encounter. That first time you run into one you're not thinking like Darwin. You're not trying to observe them in nature with an objective eye. You're spewing lines of every foul curse word you know, swinging like a maniac, and praying your heart doesn't explode out of your chest. But sometimes we see them from a distance. Out on our watches. Out on supply runs. We see them. They shift about. Slow. Sensing. Simple. Sometimes even peacefully with this strange sway they have. Like a boat on water. But like water, they turn on you fast and have no qualms in pulling you down to a dark and gloomy death.

The meat though. We are in a zoo. Not a farm. Not a giant biosphere. Not a botanical garden. A zoo. And we are running short on vegetarian options. We forage and scavenge what we can but Ian and I talk about what to do when the day comes that realistic vegetarian options just don't exist any more. He talks excitedly about learning to make his own tofu or trying to find egg laying birds we can add to the zoo's bird collection. I encourage him. Meanwhile, my mind lingers on a fear that I'll end up with blood and flesh in my mouth again...one way or another.

Intercepted, 1

To: ChiefofNavalOperations@pentagon.navy.mil

From: PacCommActual@command.navy.mil

…and the final action item on our agenda today is a strange oceanic phenomenon reported by fishing vessels’ sonar sets and also observed by our Coast Guard assets off the Pacific Northwest Coast. They have reported masses of sonar echoes moving on the sea floor not far off the coast. They are moving toward the coast at about 2 to 3 knots. They are reported to be composed of objects or organisms approximately two meters long, massing about 75 to 100 kilograms. The Seattle NOAA detachment has been briefed. We have also readied our Indian Island Depot Dolphin Security units for dispatch. The NOAA folks think it would be a neat idea to use the dolphins to check out these signals. We also have a team of Coast Guard divers who want to take a look at these things. They may be some new form of pollution from the Japanese tsunami disaster, and we will see if they constitute a hazard to shipping.

Not as big an issue as the Chinese SSBM at large in the North Pacific, Action Item 1, but still within our purview….