Another Earth Day come to chastise us; a great pageant of patchouli-scented goodwill and self-congratulation. And what a sight! Several acres of innocent grass trampled and strewn with non-biodegradable trash, gangs of roving dreadlocks, bean bag jugglers, admirably unbathed artisans, glassy-eyed botanists, an enormous blinking music main stage with the evident carbon footprint of a leviathan, little electric cars sparkling in blanched, 13 billion-year-old sunlight. You have to plug them into smokestacks to charge the batteries, you know. Never mind. This dumb rock has been turning forever, spat out of a hot singularity, drenched with steaming rain, then germs, then trilobites, then tax attorneys; this described without irony as an ‘ascent’. It just takes time. The heavens have seen all this before. We can’t Kill the Planet. It was stone dead once already and still patiently managed to turn a smattering of amino acids into Cate Blanchett. The Earth will be fine, dear little nincompoops. Our efforts to rescue Mother Earth are valiant and maybe even noble, our blinkered little race doomed, but lightly. Lightly doomed. Not our fault. It’s a cycle. You could kill the planet down to the bare bedrock and in 7 billion years you’ll have Ms. Blanchett again. Our little cars and plastic bottles aren’t sealing any doom but our own. Yes, eventually we’ll be shaved off like whiskers. We won’t go out with a bang or a whimper. We’ll just exhaustedly hit the road some eon hence, pack our recyclable bags and hemp pajamas and give it all back to the patient, seemingly emotionless bugs. They’ve been waiting. Every time we triumphantly step on one it goes down grinning.