The last of the Mohicans stood on a wooded hill looking below.    

These are my inheritance:  The forests and flowing streams, the lakes and founding rocks.  The birds that fly in the air and the fish that breathe in the water.  The beaver and rabbit and all of nature’s abundance.  And I must leave it all to some uncertain future.  There are no others after me. 

And when he died, there were indeed no Mohicans, just European settlers and other tribes who moved into the space his people had left. 

And over the years, the wooded valleys gave way to farmers’ fields and roads.  New dams made new lakes and reduced the river to a trickle.  Wild animals gave way to cows and sheep and chickens. 

And as the years passed the fields were gone and small communities of houses sprung up and highways paved their way across the landscape and cars and trucks flashed by as jets flew overhead and wild geese came down to eat and reproduce where all manner of beasts had been before but now only the geese and sea gulls and crows, the raccoons and woodchucks and squirrels. 

And slowly out of the very earth itself, it seemed, there grew people in their hundreds and thousands and millions who lived amidst cavernous streets lined by giant buildings and subways and trains ran under and over the ground and smoke was choking all and every one. 

And people yearned for green and forests and flowing streams and in their hundreds and thousands and millions they took on a new name, the earth itself reaching up its fingers into their hearts and souls where the name reverberated.

For what was destroyed comes back like spring and the cycle of death and life cannot efface our spirit. And so now we say, in our multitudes reborn despite the smoke and dust and dessicating heat as we stand on this barren hill facing ruined cities:  We have returned. We have lit the green fuse. We are the Mohicans.