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St. Helens is swathed in hints of cloud; a jewel set in a deep purple background. Behemoth shadows move across the Nordic valley below. There is a trail I cannot follow; hints of a flood that may come; a squall shimmering beyond a distant stack. It was thirty-five years ago, to the day. Ash roiled out. Scorched the trees. Deafened the distance. Ash fell like snow. Remember. A black and white photo. Or faint in color. Footprints in the ash.

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