The reason we haven't realized it is
she is not some wise old Mother, she's like the 3-year-old who allows
you to build a tower with blocks, only to knock them down delightedly
and say “Do it again.” She is at this game endlessly with man and all
our works, because she is so vast she waits more patiently than a
3-year-old, because her life is so long her tearing down can take
generations, but it is no less deliberate; from her view it is no less a
pleasure when she swipes her hand and it takes 2000 thousand years to complete the swipe. But
sometimes, like a 3-year-old, she throws a tantrum when something isn't
coming down fast enough, she employs not only her slow hand of erosion,
rust, slowly shifting earth, and rains, but pulls out the baseball bat,
the gun, and the missile. A 3-year-old holds these in her hands, fires
at our works, smiles and says “Do it again.” And we, we do it again, we
build it bigger, we build it stronger, we dare her to shake it, buffet
it, and hit it with all she's worth and, because she's a 3-year-old,
she'll gladly oblige.
Next time the wind howls and shakes
your house, listen and hear if you don't agree. She's laughing at you,
at us. To her it's all a game.
