The walrus lacks
a rudimentary understanding
of the relationship
between seasonal temperatures
and the amount of sea ice
generated annually
in the northern hemisphere,
and cannot formulate
even a basic hypothesis
that might draw a link between
the lack of sea ice and
a massive surge in coastal overcrowding
among those of his own kind.
Nor could we expect the walrus
to comprehend that
this overcrowding has become so severe that
many walruses are continually driven
to seek out higher and higher ground,
and may suddenly find themselves
precariously perched atop the tall, frozen, rocky cliffs
of the Russian arctic coast,
hundreds of meters above the sea,
as their pinniped flippers
lose traction, and the rocks and gravel
beneath them give way
under their considerable bulk.
It would be a bridge too far
for us to expect
that the walrus might understand
the anatomy of even his own eye
such that he would know
that the curvature of its lens
is well-suited for underwater vision,
but is, in fact, maladapted
for making spatial judgements
while on land.
And yet,
we are aware of all of these things,
of this horrifying confluence of circumstances
for which we’re at least partly to blame,
and from which the walrus
now finds himself unable to escape.
And we watch it all unfold silently,
so passively:
those hulking ruins
as they tumble down
the cliff faces,
one by one,
wild-eyed,
terrified,
bewildered and breaking
in their final moments.
