The shining water that moves in streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors. The waters murmur is the voice of my father's father.

The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is a savage and does not understand. There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring, or the rustle of an insect's wings. But perhaps it is because I am a savage and do not understand. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of a whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around a point at night. I am a red man and do not understand. The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, and the smell of the wind itself, cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with the pinon pine.

The air is precious to the red man for all things share the same breath – the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath.

The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives his last one.

Where is the thicket? Gone.

Where is the land? Gone.

The end of the living is the beginning of the survival!