You and me, of course, and the animals we feed and then slaughter. The boxelder bug with its dot of red,
yeast in the air making bread and wine, bacteria in yogurt, carrots, the apple tree, each white blossom. And rock, which lives so slowly it’s hard to imagine it as sand then glass.
A sea called dead is one that will not mirror us. We think as human beings we deserve every last thing. Say the element Copper.
Incandescence glowing bright and soft like Venus. Ductile as a shewolf's eye pigmented red or green, exposed to acid in the air. Copper primes your liver, its mines leach lead and arsenic.
Smelting is to melting the smite is to mite. A violence of extraction.
What's lost when a language dies? When its tropes oppose our own? In the at-risk language Aymara the past stretches out in front, the future lags behind. Imagine being led by knowing, imagine the end as clear.