Twisting through the thorn-thick underbrush, scratched and exhausted, one turns suddenly to find an unexpected waterfall, not half a mile from the nearest road, a spot so hard to reach that no one comes - a hiding place, a shrine for dragonflies and nesting jays, a sign that there is still one piece of property that won't be owned.

The music that of common speech but slanted so that each detail sounds unexpected as a sharp inserted in a simple scale.

Yet the stones remain less real to those who cannot name them, or read the mute syllables graven in silica. To see a red stone is less than seeing it as jasper…

Money. You don't know where it's been, but you put it where your mouth is. And it talks.

We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it - for a little while.

Written in red their protest stands, For the Gods of the World to see; On the dooming wall their bodiless hands have blazoned 'Upharsin,' and flaring brands Il…

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast. And bends the gallant mast, my boys…