The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pinon pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all things are the same breath - the animals, the trees, the man.

Man does not weave this web of life. He is merely a strand of it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.

The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pinon pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all things are the same breath - the animals, the trees, the man.

The whites, too, shall pass - perhaps sooner than other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed and you will one night suffocate in your own waste.

All things are connected. Whatever befalls the Earth, befalls the children of the Earth.

There is no death, only a change of worlds.

Man belongs to the Earth, Earth does not belong to man