March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.

There is a leisure about walking, no matter what pace you set, that lets down the tension.

Listen to it, and you are hearing the mighty currents of the air rushing down the latitudes of the earth, currents from the Mackenzie and the Athabasca and the Saskatchewan, and from the prairies and the white Tundra. It is a homeless wind, forever on the move.

Time after time ... today's crisis shrinks to next week's footnote to a newly headline disaster.

The most unhappy thing about conservation is that it is never permanent. Save a priceless woodland or an irreplaceable mountain today, and tomorrow it is threatened from another quarter.

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.

A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least, but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.