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E L L E N W E H L E Pine Tree, Mountain Corkscrewed by wind, shaken to flinders. In photographs she juts from the ledge of rock like a scuttled ship, gaunt hag, burnt spindle. Choosing a shot, who would document such ruin? She says: My love is the green foundry. Father of granite. Cloud-shouldered. Dark or light, I know only the sough of his breathing. 294 ❚ The 2000s ...

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