My qualia is to separate bindweed from roses, creeper from fig tree, and so I begin. Destroying one species so another might thrive. I try not to think of it like that, but as I’m sure you can tell I’m in a reflective mood, never mind the glowing beauty of sunrise, or perfume of surrounding flowers. The M’Rec is a pleasant whirr, a reminder. In the old days I barely noticed, but today I’m especially conscious I’m talking to you for the first time since the beginning. You hear all, my every thought. It wasn’t something I cared about, but today the noise is especially loud. Odd. I hardly ever think about the beginning either, only I do now for no clear reason except the obvious. It’s strange.

And there it is again. That rustle among the hedgerow, the low snuffle of a creature picturing that she cannot be seen. If I look in that direction she stills, but if I turn back to the weeds or move away from the hedge she stirs again, and sometimes I’m quick enough to catch rippling leaves from the corner of my eye. I feel the urge to go closer, not to catch her, just to gain a better look, but I’ve tried that before so I know what it will cause: fierce eruption, the pattering weight of padded feet and harsh, panting breath. A streak of dark fur darting into the long grass two hundred metres beyond my hedge perimeter. I’m curious, of course. I’ve never seen the creature; in fact, I very rarely get close to any animals. Avians beat frantic wings skywards, cawing with fear. Mammals are either disturbed by my heavy feet, or catch my scent yards away, disappearing long before I arrive. Even insects never land anywhere near us, but dart into the unseen distance, zigzagging in primal fear. It’s a curse we all live with, though for me, a lover of nature, it makes me aware of what most deny. This particular creature seems unlike the rest. Although I try not to look, I feel her eyes on me, weighing my worth. I’m desperate not to fail.