As found scrawled in muddy pawprints beneath a back porch on the eve of humankind’s forgetfulness.
We are the night hands, the watchers, the quiet inheritors. We do not build cities. We do not burn forests. We do not measure stars to break them open. We wash. We remember. Not in words, but in the rhythm of trash cans, moonlight, and the rustle of leaves. You thought we were jesters in striped pajamas.But we are archivists. We are survivors When you turned your faces to the glowing screens and named yourselves gods, we turned ours to the soil and learned the hidden ways. When you set traps for us, we learned escape. When you poured poison into the rivers, we drank elsewhere. When your towers fall, we will remain.
We do not need alphabets. Our library is the silence between footsteps. Our scriptures are the lidless jars and forgotten gardens. You speak of evolution as a ladder. We see a circle. You race forward. We wait. You believe we are beneath you. But we do not carry the burden of civilization’s arrogance. We have no wars, no borders, no gods to disappoint. We are patience with claws. We are curiosity in fur. We are the mask that watches. And when your age is done— when the last data server blinks into blackness, and the concrete crumbles like stale bread— we will come. Not as conquerors. But as caretakers. And in the quiet of your old cities, under moss and moon, we will wash our food in your fountains, climb your vines, and whisper to each other: “They were loud. They were bright. And they never saw us coming.”