In Western Civilization, Our Elders Are Books.

Burning The Small Dead Branches Broke From Beneath Thick Spreading Whitebark Pine. A Hundred Summers Snowmelt Rock And Air Hiss In A Twisted Bough.

My Grandmother Standing Wordless Fifteen Minutes Between Rows Of Loganberries, Clippers Poised In Her Hand.

For Those Who Can, One Of The Things To Do Is Not To Move. To Stay Put. That Doesn't Mean Don't Travel; It Means Have A Place And Get Involved In What Can Be Done In That Place. That's The Only Way We're Going To Have A Representative Democracy In America. Nobody Stays Anywhere Long Enough To Take Responsibility For A Local Community.

In Paul Friedrich's Book Proto-indo-european Trees He Identifies The "semantic Primitives" Of The Indo-european Tribe Of Languages Through A Group Of Words That Have Not Changed Much Through Twelve Thousand Years - And Those Are Tree Names: Especially Birch, Willow, Adler, Elm, Ash, Apple And Beech (bher, Wyt, Alysos, Ulmo, Os, Abul, Bhago). Seed Syllables, Bija, Of The Life Of The West.

With No Surroundings There Can Be No Path, And With No Path One Cannot Become Free.