Sasquatch Country is faced with black basalt, young stands of Lodgepole Pine, lichen-painted igneous cliffs, and sensuous imagination. Gods exist as images; that’s their reality. Psychic reality. Fantasy powers. Powers of fantasy. They can be celebrated, honored, reinforced by rituals but they do not exist by virtue of rituals any more than their existence is tied to the mythical narratives about them. As psychic realities they are present anywhere to the heart of Mount St. Helens's truncated mass fresh in a starched white surplice.

On the way up, though is posted along the road.
I continue to drive then walk to the cave's graven mouth. Breath and smoke from mossy rocks evaporate together, snow-melt drips from the roof. Steps lead down to a maw that immediately swallows my shallow light.

Retreat and balance on a higher step. Peering into the Void, cross the Dark Divide—

Plato's cave, Minotaur's lair,
Colossus's graffitied walls,
Sasquatch's winter den. A young
couple with twin-mantled
lantern run down the steps and

bove again, we clamber over the hard face of blackening snow, into a field bruised and burned from when these fractals were last reforged. Here large footprints impress the earth with the awe of being observed by what's hidden behind our eyes.

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