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NEAR HAG’S HEAD (Cliffs of Moher, Ireland) This headland is the battered prow of a ship my silent father rides into the Atlantic. Gust after gust buffets the raw crag of his face, his windbreaker flapping like a sail. He could be his own father’s grandfather the way he stands before the rail as others stood before the hold, the blind journey before them, and nods to me in recognition despite the ocean between us. even he knows on these cliffs the dead are reading aloud from the book of the wind. ...

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