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

Two sounds of autumn are unmistakable...the hurrying rustle of crisp leaves blown along the street...by a gusty wind, and the gabble of a flock of migrating geese.

The earth turns, and the seasons, and for all his pride and power man cannot temper the winds or change their course. They are the unseen tides that shape our days and our years.

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

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

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.

Nature seems to look after her own only up to a certain point; beyond that they are supposed to fend for themselves.