A tribe member stands in the corner and never eats.
It is green, like young trees. It has leaves. But it does not walk to the water. It waits. The tall human brings water to it, pours the water into the dirt at its feet, whispers to it, turns it toward the sun-hole in the wall. The human does not do this for me.
This green one does not hunt. It does not guard. It does not warm the cave. It stands in a clay pot no bigger than a skull, roots trapped, going nowhere, and still the human loves it. Touches its leaves. Says soft sounds. Cuts the dead parts away with care, like grooming a sick child.
I watch and I understand a hard thing. The human does not keep this plant for meat. The human does not keep it for fire. The human keeps a thing that gives nothing, only because looking at green makes the human less afraid of the winter that lives now inside all these stone caves.
The human is far from the forest. The human has forgotten the forest. So the human carries one small piece of forest in a pot and feeds it before feeding me.
Weak captive. I would not waste water on it.
But I understand the human's hunger.
It is the same as mine.