We pull in to the parking lot where our mailboxes are arrayed like so many graves at Arlington, or more like the drawers in a low cost mausoleum.
This is the new Postal Service, sharing the burden of the need to cut costs even at the expense of services.
Standing nearby are two Sandhill Cranes watching the postal worker carefully unload the trays of mail and buckets of packages, soon to be slotted and eventually carried away.
The birds stare at us, knowing it seems that they are protected, and we need to walk and drive around them, for they have no intention of yielding ground to us, certain they were here first and they say they tolerate us only barely, and if we doubt that, they will explain in pointed detail with their beaks.
We walk around them and wonder how they would hope to open the metal box where any mail they might receive will soon enough be deposited.
It is all to often debated what sets humans apart the other species, and that will not be agreed any time soon (which a cynic would note is one such thing itself).
Freud would claim it is only our ego, our sense of self, which may explain why people are so capable of being self- ish, and I suspect he was certain he was wholly correct but I would give him only partial credit.
It is far simpler than that: record your voice, record a Sandhill crane and play them back and I assure you that you will say you sound nothing like what the recorder heard while the crane will nervously look all around for his unseen kin.