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When I first encountered the rains of the Pacific Northwest I was somewhat shaken. My contemporary sense of early fall was still dominated by the surrealism of Indian summer as it extended into the low eighties well into mid October. This rain as it was suddenly introduced; the norm for this time of year; was to become a thing to expect. Typically unimpressed with forecasts I was fascinated by the strong winds and extensively chilly rains as a rhythmic counterpoint to what I had left behind in the San Francisco Bay Area—that warm and dry air was at times so stifling that I would move as far north to stop it after two decades of exposure to those thermal inclines.

Change of course was becoming a particular favorite; an arrangement that was acceptingly cool to the touch as I looked up into the gray skies and watched heavy precipitation wash over an abundant forest of pine trees. Was this another thing that I would grow accustomed to in conjunction to the now surreal falls in the expansive timberland that appeared no matter which direction I fixed my gaze? I would no longer be so reluctant to embrace this kind of change and I did so with a significantly smaller population. There is no commuter traffic up here: one train, one plane, two ferries and a mostly empty four lane highway just short of the US-Canadian border. Now I was one of the many just under an umbrella: not dodging for the overhang of the next available sky scraper as I moved along this corridor listening to my heartbeat sync to the rain that made way through the tree line and onto the path that cuts across the open market.

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