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In the surreal shadows
of North Elba's giant
ski jumps,
Old John Brown still lies
"a-moulderin' in his grave,"
as brash Olympians
take flight,
the ancient farmstead
a vast, spinning century
below,
fighting the dead weight
of their own sinking hearts, suspecting
from the first icy instant that
his one-thousand
eight-hundred and
fifty-nine feat
can never be equaled.
Adirondacks
August 1995