As a bird species quietens towards extinction it begins to reveal to us the truth. First it becomes uncommon, then rare, then folklore. It’s no longer noticed on the beach, or sitting atop the farm gate. It’s missing from the forest, which is quieter, more inscrutable as a result.
Even if once the bird was considered a pest, as it prepares to vanish, humans begin to miss it. The Laughing Owl in New Zealand was considered to be a harbinger of storm; the piopio was considered bad luck to even hear. Both are mourned today. There are many, many examples.
Is it that bird extinctions reveal to us our own cataclysmic direction? Or that we pause long enough through respect for the departed, to glimpse the goodness behind our mad chatter?
I have been thinking about this for many years. Writing through dozens of journals and across three continents and three ages of a lifetime.
Only the Empty Sky is a novel full of yearning and mystery. Of how precious life is. And how much we love.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.
Russell Kelly
August 2015
Hobart
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