Day 308: I live with volcanos. There's a 14,411' one within spittin' distance, and another known for its violent temper not too far away to the south. And then there are a hundred or so juveniles in the Barren Wasteland between the outer walls of my kitchen and garage: Rudbeckias, with their cinder cones surrounded by any number of tiny fumaroles emitting sulphrous-yellow smoke, rising above a bed of rough talus. Red-hot lava spreads out below, dusted here and there with the ash of earlier eruptions. Black-eyed Susans, you say? Nah. Etna, Kilauea, Popocatepetl, but definitely not Susan, however upset she must have been about that black eye.
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