The Last One

I eat the last one. It doesn’t matter. We can make more cookies, as many as we want. We can’t make another Martha, though.

They flew across American skies, unimaginably massive flocks of birds, billions strong, an expansive blanket blocking out the sun. At day’s end, they roosted, toppling trees with their combined weight. Passenger Pigeons. The commonest bird on the planet. Alas, no longer.

Man, progress, unwittingly wiped them out. In September 1914, Martha, the last of her species, died.

Billions to zero. It seems impossible and yet it happened.

Will we learn from our mistakes? I hope so.