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In the Great Smokies At night the giant mountains rise up on their elbows, silently shift positions, then settle back to wait; trees along the trail, leaning, starting to fall, arrest their descent and hold on at odd angles; far off somewhere, the stream beats out upon the boulders a muffled overture, tympanic rhythm rising; the snaggled empty ends of great black tree trunks, molding, gape in anticipation; and overnight here and there strange toadstools emerge, out of place, yellow, white, and red, as if to ask: "Now? Is it time?" Last time we know what happened: the erupting mountains heaved, the great rocks strained and splintered and crashed into the gorges; trees disintegrated, toppled and broke like columns, and now what is left is this mess of a mangled forest; mould and moss enshroud dark fragments in decay, the animals all hide, and even the birds that still sing stay carefully out of sight. Reaching the waterfall, we lie on the cool gray slab of sundered rock, and sleep; we dream of eternal water, laving us, pure and clear, of sunshine mottling the bright and ever-greening trees, of softly nuzzling deer appearing in the glades to seek and accept embrace, and underneath it all, the voices of the mountains return with a luscious murmur that sweetens the blood and sings: "All will be well, my children, all will be well." —Gerald George 43 ...

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