Something is dying, but without blood or writhing on any shore. Everything seems as it was: no poets dignified with prison, none banished or tortured. Each of us has enough paper to write the histories of several worlds. We don't fear the knock at the door. And yet, this stench, this oversweet stillness reaches even here among the nations of spruce and hemlock, head-high salal and the thorny devil's club. That country I could speak with intimately in myself, country Whitman honored, teeming and lustrous, country I crossed and recrossed like a thrown-out child until anywhere wasn't home--something of that country has made its dying spot in the woods, and, slug-bellied with salvage, crawls away. These are lying times, my friends, lying times. Easy to say the varnished brutes want to cozy up again, when again convicts. No heroics here.