Perhaps the beginning of our disconnect was the moment our ancestors started killing these giant inhabitants of the sea for fuel to light the lanterns in their homes and cities.

These behemoths, appearing weightless in a vast blue sea, who sing to each other from thousands of kilometers apart and who sleep vertically. Together, quietly, like trees in the forest. Pointed upward toward the stars.

Perhaps dreaming the universe into existence. And then intricately sewing life together thread by thread with their song.

Maybe this was more than our kind could comprehend. The land walkers who slithered out of the blue to ascend to the trees. Then descended from the green canopy. Made tools and fashioned weapons to fight and subjugate each other. And made up stories about sky gods who play with our suffering for sport or jealousy or penance for sins we’ve never committed. Maybe we told them to make our oppressors feel better about themselves and ease some of the guilt.

Perhaps our disconnect from the only home we’ve ever known is the moment we saw the living loam of the earth as a commodity to be ruthlessly sourced, exploited, fought over and traded for coin.

And perhaps it was at that moment when our own song began to die.

Kenn Orphan, 2025