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Mount Wachusett James B. Nicola From the summit you can see all the way to Boston on a clear day. The first time my father drove us to the top, the day was cloudy. But I park below and climb, today. The trail is marked but it is rough enough to have to squat and grab. Still, I’m undaunted and I get there soon enough. Why didn’t I climb it when I lived here? We take for granted what is always near, I guess. I wait for Boston to appear. No clouds obscure it: only impure air. Thoreau said that he loved Wachusett, so I wait for the dense day to clear … Ah, there— Boston, as clear as you, if not as clear as the spirit of Henry D. Thoreau.

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2017 Freshwater Literary Journal  
2017 Freshwater Literary Journal  

Professional literary journal produced at Asnuntuck Community College

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