So why was Appalachia the way it was? That is, why did the conifers sing those haunting tunes every Autumn? Why did the mountains spill down and roll away from heaven, God's linens tumbling out of the dryer? Why did the air excite the skin? The dirt the feet? The moss the eyes?
Why, standing in a snowy forest in the late afternoon, did it seem like every living thing was holding its breath?
There is a fragile magic in natural things. A mystical momentum in that marmot's movements. A mountain of meaning in that muddy muskrat mound. Magic.
But why was Appalachia this, and not some other, way?
It reminded us of of what we are.
Why, standing in a snowy forest in the late afternoon, did it seem like every living thing was holding its breath?
There is a fragile magic in natural things. A mystical momentum in that marmot's movements. A mountain of meaning in that muddy muskrat mound. Magic.
But why was Appalachia this, and not some other, way?
It reminded us of of what we are.
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