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January 9, 2007
The wet Chinook continues, intensifies even, bring more rain and more wind. The wind increases in velocity, rumbling and gasping as it divides at the house corners, rattling the windows and even shaking the doors in their frames. It is easy to think of the wind as a human voice. We talk of it “moaning” or “whispering.” But here in the woods at night, surrounded by a forest being made to dance as easily and madly as a field of wheat, the wind seems less a voice than an enraged blind god, a first cousin to Avalanche, Tsunami and Earthquake.