the last hill
francis russell
on this autumn afternoon the northern maine landscape is tart, compelling, shadoe of 12 to 14 at one of those indian-named boys’ camps—more years ago than i like to think about.
i stand on the rise near ht is the black oak, several hundred years old, beside ht campfires. houst days have i stood on this rise looking out over the ical prospect, the austere countryside stretching aainst the horizon. at our campfire evenings, athered around the great oak just after sunset, mount battie its definition inosity.
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