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  • Drinking my morning coffee, I am considering the wrath of a hurricane.

    Hiking alone once in the area around Denali, I heard a whistle. It sounded like a rape whistle. I hiked (almost ran) to it and found not a damsel in distress (as hoped or dreamed) or a broken hiker (as feared and dreaded), but a marmot, talking to its friends, mates, lovers and a native person. She (the person) was digging roots and picking lingonberries. She let me make a fool of myself a few times, then began to teach me. Between moments of her lessons, I gazed out over the valleys below. The aspens and poplars had turned golden overnight and I asked her if anyone could dispute the beauty of the changing trees in Denali. She held out her hand, dirt under her nails from digging for roots and calloused tips and palms from gathering food and living, covered in age spots and loose skin from time, pointed at it and said "it isn't so pretty when you are the tree"

    Today I agree with her... some days I don't...

    The winds and rains and snows come to help the trees loose their leaves, making room for great growth come spring... Persephone needs to dance with Hades. The "problem" seems to come when we put our stuff in her way.
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