#never mind me waxing poetic over a straw goat

[underwhelmingalchemist]

Something incredibly poignant about the Gavle goat standing as bird pick from its straw. It stands tall, hundreds of times as large as the birds that have taken from it, and yet, it's defenseless against them. It can't move, can't make noise to scare them away. It stands still, as jackdaws feast on it, sustaining them with its body. And as each bird takes the straw and seed that make up its flesh, a little more of its structure is exposed. It has no choice in the matter. Come storm or shine, the jackdaws will feast.

But it was doomed from the beginning, wasn't it? If it wasn't the birds, it would be the flame that brought its end. Or perhaps a car, or theft, or vandalism. And even its survival would have been short-lived, brought to a close at the end of the season, its body dismantled by the hands of those who gave it life.

So perhaps the birds are welcome on its back, on its head and in its bones, tearing into its flesh as it stands immobile. Because at least this way, its death feeds thousands of lives that are tiny to it. Tiny, but not insignificant, for nothing truly is. Not the goat, not the birds that eat from its flesh, and not the thousands that look on, witnesses to its noble fate.

At the end of this season, what remains will be taken down. And next year, it will be brought back, the builders having learned from their mistakes. The straw will have no seed for the jackdaws, and the goat will await the return of the blaze that it knows so well.