We people, cursed or blessed with a normal span of three score and ten, or four score and ten, tend to believe that the world is always on the cusp of ending, simply because our own time is up. An old jawbone sticking out of a cutbank, an arrowhead emerging from the mud in a summer rain, gives the lie to this notion. The world can, and does, go on and on. Yes, we are inhabitants here, with our houses and our roads, our farms and factories and cities, but we are honored visitors, too, regaled with gifts of sunrise and sunset, backstrap steaks and frogs' legs and walleye filets, rivers running, warm summer rain and the sparkle of sun on fresh snow. From whom much is given, we are taught as children, much is expected. It would be a mighty shame, a colossal act of ingratitude, if we wrecked the place.