Once Upon the Matagamon
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Whether it would be lunar, solar, or terrrestrial gravitation, let me say that I’m just not sure, but when those rocks start flying, a-catching I will go. Locally its known as sprundig, afar they call it magic. Or you could call this phantasmagorical phenomenon vimeologizing.
I am, therefore I imagine. I go for a walk. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I think as each footfall brings me closer. Bring gloves, I’ve heard. Igneous rock can tear up your hands, and igneous it is. Guessing this is the malarky I had supposed, I think nothing of a need to build a structure.
This is the Grand Lake Matagamon, not yet swoll up again with winter rains. Is it me? Where would have those stones flown? Do these things happen if no one is watching, does a tree’s collapse resound upon deaf ears? Cold. And I mean cold. Take 15 away from Zero and add 35 miles per hour of gale.
Time spent in the outfield as a youngster prepared me for the task at hand. No idea still as to why these rock fly. I do my part — some terrible feeling of obligation dictates each movement, from inception to completion. Unable to rest and watch, participation seems paramount. And the pile grows.