The poor word ‘surveillance,’ like ‘sequester’ and ‘social,’ has been forever ruined by white boxes at every intersection and black, inverted domes in every store and office.
Nowadays, folks don’t consider the Original Surveillance, a heartening act I see performed:
– by the deer looking back after popping over the fence
– by the junco with grub in its beak as I tread too close to its nest
– by the lizards, scooting under rocks when I pass.
I spot a fraction, yet know there’s scores more watching and judging.
– slithering sounds across leaves
– quick, muted thumps of a fleeing hare
– yips of coyotes near my tent at night
Still others mull over the matter of me. It’s a committee, casual in nature, scrutinizing my moves through the neighborhood. They remain unseen and unheard, yet I feel them:
– like a sleeping baby feels a warm blanket
– like a farmer feels the day.
Nowadays, who would consider surveillance something to welcome and cherish?
This kind, anyway, I surely do.