The wind that makes music in November corn is in a hurry. The stalks hum, the loose husks whisk skyward in half-playing swirls, and the wind hurries on.... A tree tries to argue, bare limbs waving, but there is no detaining the wind.

There is value in any experience that exercises those ethical restraints collectively called sportsmanship.

We console ourselves with the comfortable fallacy that a single museum piece will do, ignoring the clear dictum of history that a species must be saved in many places if it is to be saved at all.

We can be ethical only in relation to something we can see, feel, understand, love, or otherwise have faith in.

All ethics so far evolved rest upon a single premise: that the individual is a member of a community of interdependent parts.

All conservation of wildness is self-defeating, for to cherish we must see and fondle, and when enough have seen and fondled, there is no wilderness left to cherish.

That dark laboratory we call the soil.