| Inspiration
There is no quiet place in the white man’s cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in the Spring, or the rustle of insects’ wings. . . And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the argument of the frogs around the pond at night?
Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit on themselves. This we know.
The earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth.
Man did not weave the web of life; he is merely a strand on it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
Attributed to Chief Seattle
The shadows of long ago, chopped trees dance across the bare ground.
The spirits of these trees float along the wind whispering in their sorrowful willowy voices, hoping for new life in a new day.
Wishing for the ruins of hundreds of years of growth to heal.
Years of the tree when they stood green and tall.
Destroyed now.
Submitted to the Environment Network by Celine Simpson, Grade 4 Student
Connaught Public School, Collingwood
Spring 1999
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