We had to stop what we were doing to see what we had done. Thing was, we wouldn’t. How devoted we were to despising one another, to erecting our own private islands made of water bottles and various other plastic disposables. “Will you forgive me?” was a phrase stricken from our language — theirs, too, “they” ballooning to include nearly everyone but that arcane term “us.” Upon discovering that gulls feasting on our unearthed dead bodies died of our toxicity, we sobered up but couldn’t stand to look at ourselves in what was left of the light. Despite what so many movies had taught us, “just in time” was a tick too late. There was this bird we used to call a whippoorwill.