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The First Moron muzzles the EPA … and he signs off on those damned pipelines … and, finally, the owls

I write this while sitting at anchor in my kayak at low tide in a salt creek near Bowens Island, South Carolina. Three rods are on high alert but the redfish and black drum feign no interest in cut mullet or shrimp. Hopefully that will change in short order.

As the Camry tooled down I-77 (with lane shift to I-26) toward Charleston in the early morning darkness, a big part of me longed to go back to a time when my major environmental concern was to simply get out the door, pick up trash and be on my way.

But no. Larger issues are at play here.

I’m really at a loss for words to sum up the runaway freight train – and the environmental derailment we are headed for – that is Donald Trump, aka the First Moron.

Unfortunately, I’ve exhibited a latent form of Turrets Syndrome since last Nov. 8 that has gained a full head of super-heated verbal steam. Even casual conversations about the First Moron are peppered with multiple profanities. To paraphrase the First Moron, my utterances are “the best words, the most fabulous words, everyone says they’re the best words.”

Still, the First Moron has his ill-informed apologists. ‘Be respectful of our new president. Give him a chance,’ say Republicans in the First Moron’s peanut gallery. My response (and loudly): “Screw that.” I’ve uttered ‘f–k you’ on numerous occasions as one disastrous news report after another – plus the alternative factoids/pontifications spewed by the First Moron – went public in recent days.

But is ‘f–k you’ being too kind?

His full-on assault of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) is underway, beginning with a muzzle/gag order he slapped on any public EPA pronouncements. It is the First Moron’s apparent first step to dismantle environmental protections.

And then he signs another executive order that plunged a dagger into my heart.

He has put my beloved Sand Hills in Nebraska – and the underlying clear water lifeline, the Oglala Aquifer – at renewed sense of terrible risk with a likely resumption of the foreign-owned Keystone Pipeline. I am serving notice now; when ill-considered construction of the pipeline resumes, I will be there to protest this water-fouling catastrophe-in-waiting. I hope the good people of Nebraska and beyond will join me. I will be there. I don’t know where I’ll stay or how I’ll live but I’ll be there.

To the north is the equally egregious pipeline through North Dakota. Standing Rock protestors best get geared up again. Several posts ago I opined that how dare energy companies trudge through sacred lands of the northern Sioux tribes? What does the white man know of how these lands came to be? The hubris of white men is exhausting. Have we not done enough to emasculate and destroy the Sioux nations?

The First Moron sees the environment as just another developable thing, a dollars-and-cents commodity that stands in the way of – what? Permanent jobs? Self sufficiency? If he’s indeed the businessman he boastfully proclaims himself to be, is the First Moron not totally clueless to the potential of solar and wind energy as a way to make a buck?

The First Moron is not my president.

It must be that time of year. The birds are stirring.

In particular are the owls. There must be a resident flock relatively close by (I haven’t seen as many squirrels or feral cats of late, although cats are the rightful prey of coyotes).

img_2580The early a.m. hoots are louder and more numerous. Maybe owl whisperers know what the big raptors are saying; ‘Hey baby, your nest or mine?’, ‘The hunting was really good last night but that rabbit filled me up,’ or ‘The forest has gone to hell since that new barn owl moved in.’

Bird banter aside, it’s good to hear the hoots and screeches. It means that owls continue to eke out a living despite Charlotte’s best effort to wipe out our shared tree canopy.

Within a week or two, bluebirds will begin their annual hunt for a suitable nesting spot. If you have a tree in your backyard, affix a bluebird box at least six feet off (facing east) the ground and at least 25 yards from another nesting box. The avian beauties aren’t interested in my sunflower seed offerings, but they will peck at suet.

Let’s hope the First Moron doesn’t sign any anti-bird executive orders.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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