- Jacob Bronowski, The Ascent of Man

insects and grass through a looking glass cover man's past..................raul espinoza ramos, md
set against the constant hum of cicadas and other insects and the incessant courtship croaks of mountain frogs. Clouds moved swiftly by, carried by silent high winds. We had a small cassette player and 'The Best of Bread' but we turned it off in favor of nature's music. A bonfire was lit and a few pictures were taken for posterity. A few beers, mindless chatter, and a pervasive awe set the stage for sleep...Reality set back in at dawn as we broke camp and continued with the ascent... The summit was covered with fog. Plants looked stunted, gnarled and shrubby. Moss and small ferns contrasted with the giant ferns we espied halfway through the climb. On the way down we tore the seat of our pants as we skidded on our behinds accompanied by raucous laughter. For souvenirs we had 'limatik' hitchhikers (forest leeches, genus Haemadipsa) gorging themselves on our blood, and a taste of that exotic mountain citrus, that super-sour 'cabuyao', guaranteed to make a brave soul convulse in revulsion. The best souvenir however, is the indelible mark Mt Makiling made in our hearts. I think that is the legend... © 2007 rauleramos, md
Raul E Ramos 17 Jan 2008
Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot: There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand -- Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot: While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not. George Pope Morris (1802-1864)