A man draws a map.
He points his finger here and here,
says this is mine and this valley is mine,
the river that runs between is mine.
I will take this mountain and all the trees
that grow upon its sides, the shattered rocks
near the base I will take, this snow at the crest
like dust on a desktop I will take. And the wind
will be mine, and the wings of birds, the bees
that carry honey to their hives will be mine.
As for you, I give a desert, the annual rainfall
of three inches will be yours. Now if something
should be discovered beneath this sand, 
this useless sand, I will draw new lines,
and explain to you again, because I have nothing
to hide. Nothing on this map
I draw everyday is worthless.