Birdsong After the Storm: Averting the Tragedy of Global Wildlife Loss

By Margi Prideaux

There is a storm brewing. Humans may survive the turmoil and onslaught of climate change and political upheaval, but the world they leave will be brittle and harsh.

In choosing between the market, people, and wildlife, we are casting a future where a tiger’s footprints will not be seen in snowdrifts, and the deep, pungent smel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stormbird Press
• Release date: Sep 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781925856095

Book preview

Birdsong After the Storm

Birdsong After the Storm

Averting the Tragedy of Global Wildlife Loss

Margi Prideaux

Stormbird Press

This book is copyright © Margi Prideaux, 2018.

Apart from any use permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 and subsequent amendments, no part may be reproduced by any means, without the prior written permission of Stormbird Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover: Lilac Breasted Roller, photographer: Africa Wildlife/Shutterstock; storm clouds, photographer: Pictureguy/Shutterstock. Feathers: MyStocks/Shutterstock.

Cover design and typesetting: Stormbird Press.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Prideaux, Margi, 1967–Author.

Birdsong After the Storm: Averting the Tragedy of Global Wildlife Loss

ISBN-13: 978-1-925856-10-1 (hbk)

ISBN-13: 978-1-925856-08-8 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-1-925856-09-5 (ebk)

1. wildlife conservation | 2. environmental policy | 3. neoliberalism | 4. radical environmentalism

Stormbird Press is an imprint of Wild Migration Limited. Stormbird Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting Stormbird Press, PO Box 73, Parndana, 5220, South Australia

www.stormbirdpress.com

Every year millions of unsold books get pulped because they fail to meet the inflated sales projections of publishers who swamp the market with excess copies to buffer out sales stands. This practice drowns out many other fine titles, and creates huge levels of waste and petroleum fuel consumption, when unsold books are shipped back from bookstores to be pulped. When paper degrades in a landfill it releases methane, a greenhouse gas emission 23 times more potent than carbon dioxide. Pulping books is an unacceptable practice. Stormbird Press consciously prints our books ‘on demand’ to conserve Earth’s finite and precious resources. This way, we know, every book printed finds a home that treasures it.

‘Clear sighted, passionate and inspiring, Margi Prideaux has written a vital reimagining of the destiny of environmental activism. ‘Birdsong After the Storm’ is a clarion call for civil society to step forward and demand greater power. This important and wise book will reshape the thinking of activists, environmentalists, NGOs and policy makers.’

– Micah White,

Author of The End of Protest.

*

Contents

Reflecting on a Storm

1. A Storm is Coming

2. Dark Clouds on the Horizon

Our World is Changing

Wisdom from Nokoué

Blinded by Our Own Spin

3. Lightning Cracks and Thunder Rumbles

Governments Behaving Badly, Corporations Behaving Worse

The Davos Global Redesign Initiative

Other options

4. Rain Pours

Waves of Contention

Empowering Rooted Cosmopolitanism

An Example in the Spiti

A Path Through the Storm

5. Radical Dreams

Rooted Cosmopolitan Conservation

6. Ensuring Birdsong After the Storm

Be the change

‘We the Peoples’

The Choice is Now

Essay References

Praise for Global Environmental Governance, Civil Society and Wildlife

Acknowledgments

About the Author

An Invitation from the Publisher

Reflecting on a Storm

This essay began as a book and the book began on a day in 2015 when lightning lit a wildfire nine kilometres from our farm. The metaphor of the storm was born early that morning.

We are standing on the back porch of our farmhouse. Dawn light where we live is always beautiful.

Most mornings the paddocks reflect a golden tone that undulates across the hills and valleys; the gold is deep in the shadows and luminescent on the crest of the hills. The dense green of eucalyptus snakes along the creek, carving a sharp edge to the golden hues. Behind and above, the morning sky is soft, dove grey. A gentle echo of the closing night.

As the sun climbs above the horizon, there is an ephemeral moment when the tips of the trees shine back an ochre welcome—a brief smile—then the scene loses depth and intensity and the world fully wakes.

Our lives are connected to this place and the wildlife around us. Usually, at this time of day, the air is alive with a frenzy of morning activity as birds and bugs and bees thrum their music.

But, today is different. There is a storm coming. Once we would have called it unseasonal, but that phrase is redundant now. The seasons have changed.

My husband, Geoff, felt the storm building in the dark of early morning; a heaviness in the air that his senses are tuned to. Now we stand to watch a different scene—a magnificent but ominous performance.

Beyond the tree-line, the sky is foreboding, deep and metallic. Sheet lightning cracks from left to right. A scale so vast my mind struggles to grasp.

Geoff quietly counts the seconds. Four, five, six, and then thunder rumbles overhead.

The lightning was south-west, some distance off; likely still over the ocean. When dry lightning strikes the ground nearby, our day will focus on wildfire.

I know the sun is slowly gliding higher in the eastern sky, but it barely lights our scene below. The only evidence is the illumination of a swirling mass of currents and eddies.

Geoff begins a reassuring commentary. We sip our tea. He tells me about wind-speed and direction, about high and low-pressure systems and what this all looks like from above.

Lightning again.

Geoff’s slow count.

Thunder and the report.

His story continues, drawing me above the clouds to look back from space. Below this mighty breath and sigh of the Earth, our home, our activities are minuscule. Humanities politics of push and shove, of wealth and gain, of power and prestige, are irrelevant to Earth as she spins her way around Sol, our Sun.

We might destroy the climate for ourselves and the billions of other beings who enjoy her embrace; her blanket of kindness that is our atmosphere. She will endure.

No matter what we do, she will endure.

Lightning again and I snap back to Earth, as Geoff begins the quiet count, then thunder.

This time the inside of my chest vibrates in sympathy. The storm is close.

The wind is picking up now. ‘It will move over us in a moment,’ he says.

The birds, normally a raucous, joyous choir by now, are silent. Except for the wind, no-one sings.

Another crack of light, but only for a fraction of a fraction of a second.

Geoff’s gentle count.

Thunder. It is moving away, to the east where our neighbour will be standing on his porch with the same soft count.

Slowly, tentatively, almost haltingly, the birds begin to call to each other. The sky is still dark, the clouds still roll, but the intensity of the