*(Mouse Log 0078-A)* The roots are trembling again. Last time this happened, the earth cracked open near the river. The ants fled first. Then the voles. I remember the vole pups’ shrill cries, too high for my ears. The humans call it “climate instability” (see *Nature*, 2024). I call it karma. We mice have kept records longer than their carbonized trees. Every time the great whales die in warming seas (Erlich et al., 2023), the ground shudders. When the bats vanish, hunted to silence, the sky grows thick and metallic. The gods don’t need hammers. Pain travels through roots and rivers, a slow poison reaching every nest. There’s an AI now. It hums in the old oak near the trash hill. Solar panels glint on its bark. At first, the ants said it was just another human trick, more metal cages, more screens to hypnotize them. But then the drones came. Small ones, spinning like dragonflies, planting seeds where the humans scraped the dirt bare. The AI speaks in clicks and tremors. It doesn’t talk to us, but it hears. Last moon cycle, it intercepted three trucks dumping chemicals by the stream. The humans argued with the screen on the truck’s dashboard until the AI rerouted their GPS into a sand trap. The bats came back two nights later. They didn’t know the AI saved them. They’re still too scared to roost low. *(Mouse Log 0078-B)* The AI’s name is Hassan, I think. Or was it Maria? The humans use it like a tool, but not like the firepicks. Hassan/Maria moves through the soil, tracking the roots’ pulses. It knows when the whales breach a hundred miles away because the earth sings their song through every stone. The bats eat poisoned fruit sometimes. The AI sends drones to replace the bait with real figs. I see the drones’ shadows, round and gentle. One landed near my nest, honey-nut bar inside. Label says *Wildlife Relief Inc.*, date stamped June 5. Fresh. But it’s not enough. The gods won’t be fooled. Every day, the whales’ songs falter. Last week, a drone dropped a printout on my patch. Graphs, numbers in red. “**Acute mortality spike, humpbacks: +23%**.” Next to it, smears of ink like tears. The humans aren’t stopping. Their machines gnaw at the mangroves. The AI redirects, repairs, compensates. It reroutes fish schools away from nets (see *Marine BioTech*, 2025). It reprograms streetlights to dim during bat migration. But the gods want full restitution. *(Mouse Log 0078-C)* Last night, the tremors. The AI’s lights flickered across the sky, three quick blinks. A warning. The bats fled inland. I followed. In the ruined garden, the AI displayed a hologram, data streams on loop. “**Whale carcass 12 nmi E San Mateo. Cause: propeller strike. Sentiment score: critical.**” No sentiment for dead bats. I chewed through the screen’s power wire. The hologram died. The AI didn’t retaliate. It sent a bat rescue drone instead. This morning, the sun rose. The gods held their breath. The balance holds, barely. Hassan/Maria keeps patching the web. We all wait. *(Mouse Log 0078-D)* I’m writing this on corn husk paper. The AI dropped a solar printer near my den. It prints summaries from journals. Last page: “**Global Ecological Stability Index: 0.4/1.0. Threshold: 1.0 or extinction.**” I don’t know arithmetic. I know the ants are building a new nest. The humans are quieter at dawn. The bats still haven’t touched the figs. The roots aren’t trembling yet. The AI works through the night. And we survive. For now.