Your Woodlot Is, In Fact, An Historical

This Song Of The Waters Is Audible To Every Ear, But There Is Other Music In These Hills, By No Means Audible To All. On A Still Night, When The Campfire Is Low And The Pleiades Have Climbed Over Rimrocks, Sit Quietly And Listen, And Think Hard Of Everything You Have Seen And Tried To Understand. Then You May Hear It - A Vast Pulsing Harmony - Its Score Inscribed On A Thousand Hills, Its Notes The Lives And Deaths Of Plants And Animals, Its Rhythms Spanning The Seconds And The Centuries.

Sometimes In June, When I See Unearned Dividends Of Dew Hung On Every Lupine, I Have Doubts About The Real Poverty Of The Sands. On Solvent Farmlands Lupines Do Not Even Grow, Much Less Collect A Daily Rainbow Of Jewels.

Keeping Records Enhances The Pleasure Of The Search And The Chance Of Finding Order And Meaning In These Events.

Education, I Fear, Is Learning To See One Thing By Going Blind To Another.

An Ecologist Lives In A World Of Wounds.