Oakwood Collegiate Institute - Oracle Yearbook (Toronto Ontario, Canada)

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THE HOLY STREAMS A range of mountains stood in the misty distance like grand ladies — their folded skirts falling to the ground and their shoulders covered with scarves of clouds. How simple it now was to conceive of the polytheism of the Indians, and how beautifully sensitive — of course these must have a soul, of course they must live. He sat down on the warm damp earth at the top of the hill. Sliding off his pack, he took out his lunch and began to eat while a warm, sweet wind caressed his face and played with his hair. He stuffed the orange peels back into the paper bag and put it into his pack. It almost seemed sacrilegious to leave them here and mark this land with mechanical man who no longer belonged in this great spiritual womb of nature. Oh, how lovely to revel in ignorance. Then is nature loved and not held an enemy — something to be conquered. He took one last look at the now abandoned ski-lodge, a black cancer in the valley below, then turned his back and walked down the far side of the hill. He walked to a small valley, still packed with snow, and trotted along the dirty whiteness getting his sneakers cold and wet. The snow ' s end came to the foot of another hill. Going up it was wet and steep, the crystal ribbons of melting snow rushing past the white alpine lilacs and red Indian paint pots — flowers of spring. Panting, he rested at the top. He took off his sneakers and peeled his wet socks off to set them in the sun. It was cold up here, no birds sang — only the wind blew and flowers lived out the magic circle of life. He lit a cigarette, almost a metaphor he thought and laughed at its absurdity. He couldn ' t see the town from here — only the mountains. These tangible mountains dwarfed him, but not to insignificance. He could feel mean- ingful and alive, not as an atom in the great mass of divine purpose. From the top of this ridge he saw a turquoise lake set in the base of a great mountain whose top was covered by an immense snow field like a temple ' s dome. He ran down the slope and over a small rise. There lay his lake. A few stunted hemlocks leaned over the water and turned their tops up in supplication. His lake! A feeling of satisfaction in discovery filled his heart. Perhaps now he was standing where no one had ever stood before! But a bit farther on he found two opened beer bottles and poured out the brown liquid with its complement of drowned insects. Next to the lake itself he found a rusty mattress and a few black, scorched beams. Cheap broken china lay scattered around. A feeling of complete loneliness grasped his heart. He looked at the weeds inside the old foundations. A cloud passed Ihe sun and even now the weeds seemed closer and closer around him. George M. Iwaniuk 13F SERGIO MARZOTTO 54

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IT 4- fTERARY 53

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THE MISTS THE VISION All tlie shadows rush to shore, Wet and cold, small and grey. They blend, they fade, And shivering, strive To find the warmth of day. They flee, these shadows, murky grey, Pursued by tempests close behind, Behind — the storm. Ahead — the day. But mists are slow and blind. But some there are who scorn the fog. Black billowing clouds who fly, Forsake the day And join the storm. The Devil ' s battle-cry. And some are sunlight ' s warmth and pow ' r, They soar to seek the sky Above the mist. Voices not lost But ringing warrior ' s cries. And some are white and some are black. They soar to night or day. So few are high And for the rest. Not black, not white, but grey. Warren Bourgeois - . ' .J-- S i 1 ■- K -HI It is twilight; the vision will soon fade away. Then one can only think and dream of her. She is completely absorbed in her music as she stands there in the evening. Her lithe body is motionless yet she gives the impression of flowing and melt- ing wax. The beautiful head is slightly drooped. Past, present and future are meaningless: even time is struck still by her. Then darkness falls and she is gon«. Gabriele Haussmann WHY NOT TAKE THE FAMILY BOWLING? FIRST SNOW During the night the snows had come. I gazed out the window at the land, which looked like a piece of white paper crumpled up in places. The trees appeared to be made of cookie dough tinted green with layers of white icing on them. Turning my head a little, I saw the broad plain that seemed to stretch out to the Rocky Mountains. I had to avert my eyes, for the sun glaring on that spark- ling white, almost silvery, snow was beginning to hurt — a hurt like the one caused by staring into a lamp for a long while. I watched as a black dot on the staring white plain moved nearer. Strange it seemed that anything could progress on such an expanse. Ah, but that was one of the magical qualities of snow — a great stretch of it hypnotized you into believing the unreal. Anne Tori 9A 55