In the West flows a mighty river. Down mountains, over rocks and boulders, through trees it runs. Strong and unabated it slides toward civilization. No dam or levee can hold back the fierce flood. But it neither splashes nor sparkles in the sun. It’s pools and eddies are dark. It reflects nothing and chokes all beings it overtakes. Dry and noisome, it is a river of smoke.
The West is on fire.
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