There Is A Leisure About Walking, No

For All His Learning Or Sophistication, Man Still Instinctively Reaches Towards That Force Beyond. Only Arrogance Can Deny Its Existence, And The Denial Falters In The Face Of Evidence On Every Hand. In Every Tuft Of Grass, In Every Bird, In Every Opening Bud, There It Is.

There Are No Idealists In The Plant World And No Compassion. The Rose And The Morning Glory Know No Mercy. Bindweed, The Morning Glory, Will Quickly Choke Its Competitors To Death, And The Fencerow Rose Will Just As Quietly Crowd Out Any Other Plant That Tried To Share Its Roothold. Idealism And Mercy Are Human Terms And Human Concepts.

I Grew Up In Those Years When The Old West Was Passing And The New West Was Emerging. It Was A Time When We Still Heard Echoes And Already Saw Shadows, On Moonlit Nights When The Coyotes Yapped On The Hilltops, And On Hot Summer Afternoons When Mirages Shimmered, Dust Devils Spun Across The Flats, And Towering Cumulus Clouds Sailed Like Galleons Across The Vast Blueness Of The Sky. Echoes Of Remembrance Of What Men Once Did There, And Visions Of What They Would Do Together.

No Winter Lasts Forever; No Spring Skips Its Turn.

A Root, A Stem, A Leaf, Some Means Of Capturing Sunlight And Air And Making Food - In Sum, A Plant. The Green Substance Of This Earth, The Chlorophyll, Is All Summed Up In The Plants. Without Them We Perish, All Of Us Who Are Flesh And Blood.