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Editor’s note: This arrived in response to the posting, “Aldo Leopold, vanished ‘soundscape,’ and wind turbines.” I have no idea who wrote it, or even what country it came from—these being details of insignificance. It is enough to know it speaks from the heart, to the heart—of all humanity.

I just came in from sitting in my red rocking chair, outside on my stone porch. I like to sit there every night in the dark.

I heard this year’s family of coyotes, calling to the moon. I saw the bright moon behind the 150-year-old apple tree. My horse “Hobo” whinnied and snorted—he knew I was there.

It is a bit chilly, so I quietly walked over and piled some straw on top of Bulldozer, my little black pig. He gave a sleepy thank you and yawned.

Then I needed a velvet kiss from Hobo. So, even though my knee is sore, I padded through the grass to his fence—of his big valley. The moon lit up the white pattern on his chestnut face. He leaned over and nuzzled me.

“God, he smells so good and he feels so warm.” I got my velvet kisses; he got my voice, low in the darkness, almost a whisper calling him my favorite mighty steed.

Sometimes, when I say goodnight to my furry friends, I say “night night baby duck!” And when asked why I would call a pig or horse, dog or cat a “baby duck,” I explain that they are all so pure and innocent. To me they are like a baby duck.

Damn the wind industry! Damn damn damn them all!

With thanks to Matthew Seed