I've been hesitant to write a diary about this, not only because I have no real answers to the questions it asks, but because I fear to learn them.
Maybe I'm going about this all wrong.
Liz thinks so, and, though I don't believe her, I have to respect her opinion. She calls herself a glorified recycler, but her job requires her to coordinate message with environmental educators and advocates around the world. She knows message. She knows the words people hear.
"People don't care about oil jobs. The average person eats shrimp maybe twice a year at parties. They can't understand economic impacts, unless it's on their lives.
"They care about cute animals."
Hell, she's likely right. The news guys think so. When two weeks went by with no greasy critters to take pictures of, they packed up and left Venice. Then came rushing back for the pictures when the pelicans got it.
There is something universally touching about the eyes of another, surrounded by fur or feathers, but with the unmistakable light of sentience shining out. It doesn't make much difference if the viewer's never seen a sea turtle and the thought of sliding an oyster down their throat is gag-inducing. Show 'em that pelican peering out through a coat of crude and suddenly they care.
So, okay, Liz. I'll give it a go.
It's been depressingly easy to predict the impact of the oil hell on our local critters. The black storm came at the worst time for our fauna, at spawning/nesting season. Shrimp are in big trouble, oysters are likely lost, tuna are toast and pelicans are doomed, simply because they don't know to stop nesting, hatching and fishing.
There is, however, a vast array of species for whom the consequences of BP's greed and negligence are not yet known. Because they're not here yet.
The Mississippi Flyway is the I-95 of avian migration. The linked watersheds and wetlands that stretch from Elmers Island to the Mackenzie Valley, far north of the Great Lakes, comprise the largest and longest migration route in the Western Hemisphere. It's the hang zone of species from the Canvasback Duck and Canada Goose to intrepid voyagers like the Bobolinks, who pass through our parts in their journey from the Sierras to South America.
The marshland of South Louisiana is the last fuel stop many species get before crossing the vast Gulf to winter and their first resting place on the return trip to nesting places far to the north. Its importance to the health of migrating birds is rivaled only by the Bay of Fundy and perhaps the Chesapeake and Delaware Bays.
The exact same marshland along Breton Sound and Barataria Bay that is currently inundated with Tony Hayward's life-thief.
What is most maddening when trying to judge the effects of the hell on these transients is the utter uncertainty. How much of the marshes will be affected when and where they alight? How deeply into the food chain will the oil and dispersants have slithered? How hungry and thirsty will our guests be? There are more unknowns than even Donald Rumsfeld could classify and it will be months, at the least, before we get anything that even masquerades as an answer.
Months, perhaps years.
But someday, a fellow standing in his field outside Anoka on a clear, cold morning, a fellow who's never tasted a red snapper in his life, who doesn't know Barataria from baklava might look up, unconsciously expectant and miss something he didn't know he was listening for, a sound that in years past pulled his unpoetic heart from his breast to fly, for a moment, on a path unmarked through a sky a continent long, a song that was the soundtrack of a young man's yearning and an old man's regret.
Befuddled and not knowing why, perhaps he'll head into town for coffee and eggs and familiar small talk at the cafe.
"Looks like she'll be a pretty good spring, I guess."
"Looks that way so far, sure."
"Funny, though. Haven't been seeing so many geese as usual."
"Yeah, that's true. Wonder how come."
When the shadows of this life have gone,
I'll fly away;
Like a bird from prison bars has flown,
I'll fly away, I'll fly away.
--Albert Brumley "I'll Fly Away" 1929
If there is anyone who is not moved, somewhere inside, by the cry of a traveler from far shores passing overhead as the day begins or closes, I would not trust him with my treasure or my secrets.