“Do you believe in miracles?” If by ‘miracle’ you mean a moment of unalloyed normalcy, of low-shouldered sublimity, of pure being empty of past and future, then yes, I do. If you mean an event when Nature is briefly persuaded to suspend one of her laws, then no, I don’t.
The forest floor is covered with dead matter. But this dead matter teems, thrums with life, an undulant carpet uplifting a cathedral of trees. What then death? A laughable impossibility, Alfred Tennyson wrote.
Slowly and inexorably, in response to manifold transgressions, Nature has begun to assert herself. The books are being balanced, and it is entirely possible that humans will not survive the accounting.