The Birth of Language (Reflections on Recycling Night)   Back in the caves, when we were showing off our shiny new opposable thumbs and tottering on our hind legs, enough of us must have had the insight that some stuff was worth holding onto, and some not — decisions would have to be made. This stone, that stick — keepers. But shattered sticks and rotten meat and broken blades and blackened bones, things whose very presence was burdensome — into the midden. What need for words when we stared into the embers, felt that odd wonderment at the stars and where we come from? No. The first useful word must have been trash — before tool, before fire, before God.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont February 2019