I’m trying to write a poem, the task I’ve set myself for each day here, but nothing is coming. There is just too much terror in the air for me to settle into image. Even though I’m away from the East coast here in Wyoming, where the sheer vastness of the land makes me feel that I’m the only person in the world--- like I did yesterday when I climbed through the red mud up to the ridge that overlooked a panoramic mountain range—despite the awe, the cherished solitude, I read of the world’s fearful crashing and taste my own.