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On
On we thought we ought to visit
the shore of a lake. Most of the country is on
the shore of one lake or
another— at least if you can trust
the Group of Seven. We pilgrimmed to the big
one, down to green like the sea with its
far side curving, curling out of sight; a few kids bobbed improbably
in its hypothermic waters, uneasy parents standing
by, with thoughts, no doubt, of
E coli. We skipped stones
instead, sought out sails on the
spread of blue horizon, and climbed beslimed rocks
while golden gnats haloed our heads. The
barbecue-and-sunscreen-scented sunlight glowed on faces— faces of every colour faces
have ever come in. Within a ten-foot radius I
heard three tongues I did not recognize. And from where we stood,
we
could not see Or the Queen.
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