Here In Florida The Seasons Move In

Now, Having Left Cities Behind Me, Turned Away Forever From The Strange, Gregarious Huddling Of Men By Stones, I Find Those Various Great Towns I Knew Fused Into One, Burned Together In The Fire Of My Despising.

Who Owns Cross Creek? The Red-birds, I Think, More Than I, For They Will Have Their Nests Even In The Face Of Delinquent Mortgages..it Seems To Me That The Earth May Be Borrowed, But Not Bought. It May Be Used, But Not Owned. It Gives Itself In Response To Love And Tending, Offers Its Sesonal Flowering And Fruiting. But We Are Tenants And Not Possessors, Lovers, And Not Masters. Cross Creek Belongs To The Wind And The Rain, To The Sun And The Seasons, To The Cosmic Secrecy Of Seed, And Beyond All, To Time..."

Ants In The House Seem To Be, Not Intruders, But The Owners.

Somewhere Beyond The Sink-hole, Past The Magnolia, Under The Live Oaks, A Boy And A Yearling Ran Side By Side, And Were Gone Forever.

You Can't Change A Man, No-ways. By The Time His Mummy Turns Him Loose And He Takes Up With Some Innocent Woman And Marries Her, He's What He Is.