Log Cabin Chronicles
Brief
FRANK HARDING
I have no fear of whiskeyjacks or jets or snow, things that have their home in the sky. It is the earth that clutches me, that waits for me to lie down and feed its seeds. My home is there finally, a thin white line in limestone strata, a neocene fragment to love the fearful home - granite hills and dark ravines, tectonic moans and pulsings, holding, a lover never spent, a mother in constant labour. Peaks thrust up and wear away, and the things I love the most are those most awful and enduring.
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