On days like this, being outside, somewhere lost in green, somewhere in the sunset, somewhere by the water, somewhere where black dragonflies are preying on mosquitoes, is the only medicine.

I saw a turtle perched on a low branch above the water and came as close as I could to observe. I thought I saw her turn her head, again and again, with obvious curiosity and eager engagement. I was surprised at this, then surprised at my own surprise, at somehow expecting the turtle’s movement to be slow and lazy. Why would I deny an animate being her right to be animated?

A redstart was tuuuit-tuuuiting somewhere above mine and the turtle’s heads. I wondered if the turtle heard him. What does turtle hear? What does she see? How does the world she sees look to her? What does she know? What does she feel? How does it feel to be someone other than human? Does it ever feel lonely?

If a turtle asked me what it feels like to be human, this is what I’d say. It feels lonely. This fundamental loneliness that only one creature in the universe can feel, the only one who managed to separate herself from the rest of the creation so completely. It’s on days like this, when summer is still new and mild, when peonies are in bloom, when evenings are endless, when everything is well, that I feel my loneliness so completely that it makes me cry. It’s on days like this that I ask myself whether, given a choice, I’d choose to be human.