Skiing Through Woods, Winter Dusk

Whose woods these are, I think I know.

He's never seen them, sun or snow.

They're just a line of numbers in his

Resource Play portfolio.

My little dog sits in my track

Sniffing forward, gazing back,

As I stand still and silent, mourn

That grasping bastards still are born,

Who buy and cut and sell and bleed

A world subjected to their greed,

Who turn earth's joy to barren grief:

Bole and branch and twig and leaf.

These woods are part of me, as true

As winter's cold or sky is blue.

And now I know what I must do,

Now I know what I must do.