A Note on the Hierarchy of Demise.

I saw a wood pigeon struggle briefly and die on an empty verge beside a lonely lane yesterday. It hurt. It occurred to me how much easier life would be if I were one of those people who kill things for pleasure, although I wondered whether any of them suffer pangs of guilt when their own deaths draw nigh. I doubt it.

And then I found myself wondering how many thousands or tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands or millions of lives leave this world every day. I have no way of knowing, obviously. But then I considered whether any one of them is of greater consequence than any other. Is the death of a monarch or president or great social reformer or the men who wrote the Bible more worthy of regret than that of a wood pigeon? If personal connection is left out of the equation, I think not.