They bury ducks, dead from avian flu, in the landfill, up the slope from where I am working on the beautification project of the day. On the radio, I hear them call it “special waste.”
I daydream of a great resurrection day, where all creation is restored to perfection, and the special waste is reanimated as ducks, but in the new Earth there will be a meeting of the minds between humans and other creatures, where the barriers to our communication will be no more.
I wonder what they will have to say then. This is my “working genius.” Wonder. Invention, too. I would be happy to know the mind of a resurrected duck and learn of his or her working geniuses. Among other things.
