What is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around the pool at night?

. . . the deer, the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony and man - all belong to the same family. . . . The White Man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers.

There is no such place as away.

Only when the last tree has died and the last river has been poisoned and the last fish has been caught will we realise that we can not eat money.

To us, the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground.

How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them? Every part of the Earth is sacred to my people, every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clear and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people.

Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.