About half a century ago, when I was a kid, summer was a buzzing, biting, humming chaos. We played in the woods and meadows of our little village, waging constant war against the air itself—because the air was alive. Birds everywhere, yes, but mostly the endless armies of insects: the buzzing, stinging, crawling, flapping multitude that turned every field into a writhing cloud of motion. You couldn’t open your mouth without swallowing something winged. You couldn’t leave the house without dousing yourself in some sticky potion that smelled like chemical warfare. And that was simply normal.
The same region now feels like a tomb. The air has fallen silent. Not metaphorically—literally silent. The birds are few and the bugs are gone. The swallows that once sliced through the summer sky like little black scythes, devouring mosquitoes and gnats by the thousands? You’re lucky if you see one all year. The buzzing, the chirping, the shimmering dance above the meadows—it’s all gone.
And no, it’s not because of pollution. When I was a child, the air was far dirtier. Smoke from wood stoves and coal furnaces hung low over the valley like a second skin. We coughed, but nature thrived. The air today is cleaner—and deader.
The great irony is that this massacre of the natural world was committed in the name of “saving” it. The same priests of climate righteousness who preach about sustainability have turned the landscape into an industrial abattoir of steel and fiberglass. The great shredders—those wind turbines of virtue—stand where once the swallows danced. Their spinning blades, each a monument to self-deception, have murdered more life than any farmer’s pesticide ever did.
And so the air is pure now, yes. Pure, silent, and sterile. The climate crusaders have achieved their utopia: a world clean enough for their conscience, and empty enough for their comfort.
https://www.masterresource.org/cuisinarts-of-the-air/avian-mortality-wind-power-ecological-trouble/