We are working 2 miles from Canada near the tiny dying farm town of Fortuna. With solstice so far behind us, the wind’s story is one of cold, of barrenness and loneliness. The hills, with their fleeting green halos worn only for the evanescent summer, are silent with their secrets, watching as the newest sojourners pump up the oil made from yesteryears life. Abandoned schoolhouses and steepled churches dot the land at intervals, but the children’s laughter is not heard and hymns are not sung. Those stories are dust. The first star appears and the hills shrug and go to sleep; they have felt the weight of glaciers and oceans, of bison and covered wagons, the weight of eons. The ghost awake, and furtively begin their roaming paths.
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