Nature is just nature being nature—no gender, no ulterior motive, no vindictive streak behind hail or lightning; no malice seeding walls of brush fire across an island or king tides along the coast. If there are ants along the windowsill or flies above a basket of rotting bananas, it cannot take credit or blame. A tornado streaks down a town's main street— it is but isn't a miracle that a house is ripped from its foundation, but the one right next to it is untouched. We give it names like fate or luck, look for the hand that could have set the domino chain into motion. The waters rise. A hawk eats a vole. The sun sets, washing everything in purple and gold.
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