eno Magazine Issue 8

ISSUE 8 | 2019 Environmental Arts and Literature Magazine

p r o s e • p o e t r y • p Eno h o t o g r a p h y • a r t1

Editors: Heather Depouw, Songyun Lee, Charlie Mize, Jimena Perez-Viscasillas, Sunny Qiao, Mali Velasco, Julia Whitten, Alicia Zhao Faculty Advisors: Ann Thurston & Rebecca Vidra Cover photo by: Gordon Li

eno Magazine is a student publication founded in 2011. eno’s name comes from the Eno River in

North Durham and the original inhabitants of the land, the Eno people, who by the late 1700’s had merged with the present-day, federally recognized Catawba nation. The Catawba nation now officially resides along the Catawba river on the border of North Carolina. At a broader scale, eno’s name reflects our connection to the places where we live, work, and play, and to the Earth. To that end, we acknowledge the important work of the Eno River Association in preserving the natural and cultural legacies of the Eno River Basin and the thousands of organizations around the world that do similar work.

Our Mission: To inspire a respect for our environment by engaging in thoughtful expression through the use of artistic, reflective, and creative work.

This publication is available in electronic format on our website. However, we believe print is a powerful and evocative medium, and so we have chosen to print a limited number of copies. When you’ve finished reading, please share this magazine with a friend.

The printing of eno is generously supported by the Nicholas School Student Council, the Dean’s Office and the Office of Development and Alumni Relations.

Printed by Steuben Press Longmont, CO www.steubenpress.com Duke University Nicholas School of the Environment Durham, NC www.enomag.org enosubmissions@gmail.com

Photo by: Peishu Li 2

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Letter from the editors: During the past year, eno fought hard for the opportunity to bring our community together through art and our appreciation for nature. We hosted paint nights at Fullsteam Brewery, soil painting in Grainger Hall, wreath making in the Duke Forest, and we’re finishing the year with art in the Duke Gardens. Thanks to all of you, eno has organized more events than ever and has received a record number of submissions.

eno is honored to serve as a connection between us and our natural environment and between each other. We hope to continue our wish: to present beautiful art pieces that will inspire, encourage and empower people, and remind people of the generosity of our mother nature. We hope you enjoy.

Sunny, Charlie, Songyun, Heather, Jimena, Julia, Alicia and Mali Eno

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Contents Artists Grace Tiger........................................ 20 Joyce Huang................................ 23, 34 Kelsey Rowland.......................... 19, 22 Lizzy Nist........................................... 19

Featured Artist Gordon Li..................................... 26-27

Photographers Anna He.............................................. 12 Emily Melvin.............................. 4-5, 30 Gordon Li................. Cover, 8-9, 10, 18 Lauren Carley..................................... 33 Lara Breitkreutz................................. 11 Paul Noah..............14-15, 21, 24-25, 32 Peishu Li........................................... 2-3 Tianqi Wu.......................................... 28 Virginia Frediani..................... 6, 17, 31 William Hanley........................ 7,13, 29

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Photo by: Emily Melvin Eno

Poets Alexie Rudman................................ 31 Betty Jamerson Reed................... 7, 10 Branch Tanner Archer*................... 35 Changming Yuan............................. 28 Graden Froese.................................. 32 John Grey.................................... 18, 29 John Lane.......................................... 30 Julia Bingham.....................................9 Kendall M. Jeffreys................ 6, 19, 31 Lauren Dabiero................................ 11 Linda C. Ehrlich......................... 24-25 Martin Smith.................................... 22 Robert Grey...................................... 15 Sam Barbee................................... 8, 16

Short Story Authors Paul Noah................................... 20-21 Tamra Wilson**..........................12-13

*Poetry Winner: “A Moment’s Breath“ **Short Story Winner: “Mrs.Jarrett’s Bulbs”

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Photo by: Virginia Frediani

I hope I never rise To silence carried Up in dawn -- sunrise But to the Bluebird’s Song of new-day signs.

Wake to the Bluebird’s Song

I hope I never run On beaten paths Not shimmering in sweat that in grass and each eyelash trickles past.

Kendall M. Jeffreys

I hope I never wake To see branches not Bowed by bluebird’s bent pleats and songs swaying leaves in play.

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Memory’s Treasure Betty Jamerson Reed This bungalow of mine boasts the dreams of yesterday drifting through each room like sunbeams, lounging in memory‒life’s wind‒ and radiating through space to embellish bare walls with shadows of joy and grief, play and toil.

Outside my backyard brags of showy rose blossoms; the garden is green with cabbage and broccoli‒okra not yet.

The wind, moving curtains, adds silhouettes from the memory’s souvenirs; furnishing my soul with rare art, masterpieces from living, left behind, drifts through empty space like sunlight descending over yesterday.

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7 Photo by: William Hanley

Vestige

Sam Barbee

October has always proven to begin my unpleasant season.

Hickories thin first.

Saffron maples rust.

At Parkway milepost 390 dwells an untouted view.

Below heralded autumn foliage, hollow trees crumble a society of empty growth rings.

The mythical forest is reduced to rotting sterns, roots decaying beneath unrakable passages.

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Backpacking through Heartbreak Julia Bingham

I am somewhere Between sunset and midnight Of what will I dream? the thousands millions billions of stars spilled along and from the milky way sky river, at which I stare from my sleeping bag shelter?

Or the sing song of old souls I can hear them in the creaks and croaks and bending harrumphing

melancholy stretching of the snags and tired old firs around us?

Or the secret life of crawdads in warmer than expected mountain lakes?

Or the nuances of huckleberry flavors defined by particular shades of red or purple or blueness, sun exposure, size, thickness of skin, and how easily and sweetly their juice stains fingers and lips?

Or real coffee And chocolate bars Or him, again.

Last night I woke up from a dream but I couldn’t remember which, because I was hungry

and I hurt. I expected back or leg or groin or foot pain to report to me my overpacked bag and the 35 mountain miles we’ve wandered, and I guess maybe my back was talking.

But mostly it was inside aches, still.

And again, today, when I tried to nap in the sun

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Creation’s Apprentice Lauren Dabiero

Look how the sky Wakes up in song.

Give me a voice To sing along.

Note how the brook Frolics in play.

Grant me the joy To live that way.

Taste how fresh air Dances at night.

Set my heart free To be her kite.

Breathe in the life Breathed out by God. Remind us all We were as sod.

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Photo by: Lara Breitkreutz

Photo by: Gordon Li

Breaking Ground Betty Jamerson Reed

Shovel in hand, the mayor lifts a spade of dirt, wrested from earth ignored by a generation’s neglect, as wild applause breaks loose.

In the past oaks, poplars, locust stood in splendor while seasonal flowers: trillium, lady slippers, lilies splashed colors nearby, but bulldozers replaced plows, chiseled out roots to make way for lifeless concrete, granite, brick.

The clapping ends, and folks walk away.

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Mrs. Jarrett's Bulbs Tamra Wilson

SHORT STORY CONTEST WINNER

S tray blooms dot the empty lot in our neighborhood every spring. Bright yellow daffodils appear, followed by purple Dutch hyacinths. Not Muscari, or grape hyacinths, but a petite heirloom variety.

The perennials send up their hunter-green leaves then specialized stalks nubbed with violet-colored buds, ready to burst when warm breezes touch this old homestead. Oh I'm sure it's a homestead. The bulbs aren't random acts of birds or squirrels. No, these flowers mark the ghosts of old flower beds that once skirted buildings, maybe the foundation of the front porch, the edge of a wash house or maybe a smokehouse near the tree line.

It would take an archaeologist's trowel to excavate the full truth, but my imaginings know the secret.

Beneath this old sod are bits of wire and glass, fragments of broken Ironstone, a half dime, a rusted horse shoe, old medicine bottles, flagstone footings— traces of a long-ago existence before their acreage was plotted, platted and purchased by strangers.

The fragrant blooms are a deep violet, smaller than the big-headed hyacinths I have planted beside our front steps: pink, lavender and white Easter-egg flowers visible from the street. They push their heads through my pine bark mulch to say “We are beautiful. Look at us!”

Meanwhile, on that empty knoll grandma bulbs peep over tall grass. Native Americans never saw them. These are transplants from Europe: family of Asparagaceae, subfamily Scilloideae. Hyacinth is of the lily family, a native to the Mediterranean by way of Dutch vessels when the world was bursting with bulb fever in the sixteenth century. The market exploded with rare tulips, hyacinths and their cousins of all colors, shapes and sizes. The hyacinth was a most fashionable specimen in the early nineteeth century. These bulbs became more common and affordable by the time they made their way to this Carolina farmstead.

Mrs. Jarrett’s wash dress spills faded calico around her shins. She is proud of her house, its white clapboards encasing the secret underneath—a log cabin, two rooms that have grown with an ell out back, a front porch for knitting and telling stories, a back porch for stringing beans, shelling peas, capping blood-red 12

Photo by: Anna He strawberries or plucking hens for Sunday dinner.

The precious bulbs were dug late one spring after blooming, then dried and salvaged in a cellar.

“Come take these bulbs,” her mother says. “Plant them and make a fancy spring.”

The onion-like bulbs ride in a tow sack on the floor board. The woman smiles at the thought of future yellow and purple blooms that would herald the coming of Easter, when she would prepare ham and yams, fresh greens from out back, baby carrots and peas. The whole family—aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws spilling off the porch onto a lawn filled with planked tables and kitchen chairs gouging the loam. All admire how this old farmstead has been tamed.

An 1886 map of the county pinpoints this plat of land with a square blot signifying a house labeled J. Jarrett. In 1880 there are two daughters, Rosa and Lilly.

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The old hyacinth gardens have endured moles and grub worms, squirrels and deer. They’ve survived rambunctious dogs fetching Frisbees, falling limbs and mowers as the blooms return every year to keep watch over the old farmyard. These hyacinths are the last vestiges of what surely included rose bushes, herbs, vegetable gardens with perennial asparagus, a Teutonic vegetable that came with these German settlers, and umbrellas of rhubarb, frilly stalks of yellow and pink and white hollyhocks, bridal wreath and foxgloves.

Mrs. Jarrett is a gardener. Of all her plantings only Mama’s bulbs remain, the ones she wouldn’t thank her for in case the superstition is correct—thanks will make plants die. Their fragrant blooms bob as small sentries, living remnants of a family who tilled the soil, tended a garden, tended to chickens, sheep and goats.

Mrs. Jarrett pulls a book of Greek mythology from her cupboard. The Greeks knew Hyacinth as a beautiful youth loved by both the god Apollo and Zephyr, the west wind. The two took turns at throwing the discus. Hyacinth ran to catch it to impress Apollo, but he was struck by the discus as it fell to the ground, and died. Perhaps Zephyrus was responsible. A feud ensued between Zephyrus and Apollo. Jealous that Hyacinth preferred the radiant archery god Apollo, Zephyrus blew Apollo’s discus off course, so as to injure and

kill Hyacinth. Apollo did not allow Hades to claim Hyacinth. Instead, Apollo made a flower from Hyacinth’s spilled blood.

When Mrs. Jarrett tells this story, her girls make a face, but the ruse works. They won’t pick their mother’s hyacinths and get blood on their hands.

It has been a few days since I passed the old home site, and the hyacinths have appeared when I wasn’t looking. I must bring a trowel and a plastic bag next time. When no one’s looking, I’ll snatch some of these antique bulbs. I will plant them with care, create a new patch of history that I can watch up close.

Photo by: William Hanley

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Tradewinds Robert Grey Twilight mistaken as her cue, she danced with reckless abandon onto the interstate, a tiny ballerina sleeved in fawn skin, dead set on stunning a brutally apathetic, captive audience in the performance of her life.

Tucked into herself neatly spinning in place as if the four corners of her being had been grounded by the tip of a single hoof wed to broken white lines dividing two of four southbound lanes, she willed her spirit to wheel her body into a pirouette on the cement stage taking everyone by storm.

Whether slapped into a spin by the surge of traffic or wound into its spiral by iron currents, she bared her chilling talent for tantalizing seconds, but could not halt her crush of fans or milk them for applause.

There was no time for even the most sensitive driver to make a stupid mistake and kill us all. The doe strove to break from her spin in the path of a rickety pickup groaning under its bed of rocks but intemperate winds snared her again.

After a flat rippling thud against a tractor trailer’s hollow box the white-tailed deer caught in the side and rear view mirrors flew apart as gracefully as a danseuse.

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Photo by: Paul Noah 15

Structure of Water Sam Barbee

Search for heat lightning. Sun shower bruises the Devil’s wife.

Water has good bones. Folding together like twin half-moons, into full-glory.

Unifies with purpose, with inflection, not with afterthought as I. Trickle Winter’s kiss opens crevice. Mystical over cavern threshold, Snow-pack at spring.

Soft plants rumble from damp tingle.

Carnival of froth boiling forth.

Rasping banks. Shushing roots.

Peeling jag from stubborn stone.

Arroyo swells, potent into a river, set to douse.

Granite remnants. Blue-hearted outcrops. Verdant hardwoods and vagrant stumps. Disheveled bends. Quick bluffs downstream.

Pond whispers between reeds. Lagoon reflects from dawn.

Reservoir The forest, the field. Earthen dam: grass and rip-rap armor. Leaves coagulate. Silt to cover shore.

Ready to cool, to quench, cure swelter.

Osprey or loon, turtle or trout.

Nothing better than wading in, splashing about.

Sliced by outboards. Pricked with piers.

Quick boundary for the stale heart.

Foul spew from broken towns, sea of toxins.

Culverts and canals. Lochs and dams, crusted gates creaking.

Thick-thighed estuary and marsh, unchained at last to right the keel.

Ocean High tide arrives without grief.

Shore decodes the cacophony of breakers.

Ocean’s breast: foaming saline and cold-blood.

Uprooted Seaweed bakes. A sorry, angry state.

Scrabble of conch and clam. Each briny life beached, a rosary of the aggrieved, cast off, ancient magma into sand.

Currents’ simplicity. Final flow storming into balance.

Oasis blooms mirage. Waters gather to settle our fight and flow.

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Photos by: Virginia Frediani

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Photo by: Gordon Li

Photo by: Gordon Li

Camping in Baxter Park John Grey

Day bows down before the fire’s rise, as the stream’s run of water goes from sight to merely sound, and thick trunks sop up so much of the light that fading sun has little brightness left to glimmer eye and cheek, as I first build, then participate in, this on-going flame enough to cook trout and bluefish within a mere cast of their homeland, as chirring crickets take up the challenge of the breezy shadows, birds return to roosts, and raccoons test their courage with nibbling raids on camp’s edge, while you slump against your backpack and dinner sizzles in a pan, the coals burn smokeless and the conversation’s more sigh than sense, and the tent flaps applaud gently like they could not agree the more.

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Costa Rica Rains Kendall M. Jeffreys

Steam curling upon a breath, afternoon tea, Cool as mists that rise above the mountains, From the sea, And liquid warm, comforting As pouring rain beckons leaves – Drink – And dip ever so – Elegantly Our drops from leaf to Leaf And finally, Ground.

Until all life drinks Sweet rain sounds.

Kelsey Rowland “Slow Down and Enjoy the View” Acrylic paint

Lizzy Nist “Big Four Mountain” Chalk pastel painting

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Solar Eclipse Paul Noah

T he first cars had shown up at 3:30 in the morning. August 21st had finally arrived, and thousands of people had made their way to Cades Cove on this balmy summer weekend for an event they had antici pated, in some cases, for years. These visitors had traveled into the park to witness the Great American Solar Eclipse of 2017, which would cross the middle of the US from Oregon to South Carolina and pass directly over the Smokies at precisely 2:34pm.

Cades Cove, which is a one-way, one-lane, 11-mile scenic drive in eastern Tennessee’s Great Smoky Mountains National Park, is the site of a 19th-Century mountain valley settlement complete with expansive vistas, historic homesteads and an abundance of wildlife. Of the 11 million people who visit the Smokies annually, roughly two or three million of them make it over to Cades Cove, which guarantees an inordinate amount of traffic on a road that was designed early in the 20th Century for a few hundred vehicles at a time. This fall, it was my job to work with law-enforcement rangers to keep this traffic moving, so, fortunately, I was already very familiar with dealing with large crowds.

The entrance gate opened at 8am, and it took the initial line of cars several hours to stream through. Two massive parking lots had been created in anticipation of the event, although they lay on the opposite side of the loop, which had some of the best views. Nevertheless, cars proceeded to occupy every conceivable pull-off, overlook and trailhead. Every open field in Cades Cove – and there are many – was fair game, and before long they were all covered with picnic blankets and eager, eclipse-glasses-wearing visitors.

The lead-up to the event had gone remarkably smoothly, but park management’s anxiety was 20

“Here” by Grace Tiger, Mixed media

not unfounded. During peak season Cades Cove is notorious for traffic jams; on a good day, a few isolated bear sightings might cause backups before being dispersed by park employees; on a bad day, the loop might devolve into a single, 11-mile standstill complete with angry tourists, medical emergencies, car accidents or breakdowns, and wildlife-related safety issues.

As luck would have it, there were very few bears on the loop today and clouds were sparse. Early in the afternoon the moon slowly began to cover the sun. Having grown accustomed to seeing the moon as a bright object in the night sky, I found it incredibly strange to witness it appearing in total reverse as a black object moving across the sun, as a bringer of darkness rather than a bringer of light. I could tell that the countless people around me were having similar misgivings, and I could feel a vague, collective sense of anxiety in the air.

The scientific community might have explained why eclipses occur and been able to predict their occurrence down to the minute, but there remained something unsettling about seeing one in real life.

Before long the moon had covered about 95% of the sun, and the world started to change dramatically.

A wavy, shimmering light that was reminiscent of flowEno

ing water began to cover the road and other impervious surfaces, and the air turned from glaring summer daylight into dark, saturated twilight. Suddenly, the moon eclipsed the final sliver of the sun and the world was plunged into darkness, almost as simply as if a door had been closed. There was an uproar of cheering, screaming and even some crying from the crowd. The temperature dropped precipitously, the planets and stars became visible, night insects began their chorus, and the only evidence of the blotted-out sun was a smoldering corona licking at the edges of the moon. Cheering soon gave way to wondrous silence, and for the longest two minutes of my life the world stood still.

In an age that encourages disconnectedness from nature, events that are able to fully remove us from our modern routines seem increasingly rare. Now I know, however, that a full solar eclipse is still capable of transporting a huge crowd of people to an earlier, more primitive place. All of the conveniences and distractions in the world will never be able to replicate the wonder that we all felt, the thousands of people who stood in silence among those mountains and watched the daylight disappear behind a massive rock in the sky.

To everyone’s relief, the opposite edge of the sun began to reappear and brought daylight back to Cades Cove. Cheering resumed, groups began to disperse, and

the most ambitious visitors started sprinting towards the parking lot in anticipation of a traffic jam for the ages. Almost as soon as we had left it, we were back in the 21st Century. The next seven hours were spent flushing out the resulting traffic, but I didn’t mind, because those two minutes gave me a high that I rode for the rest of the day. Never before had I witnessed something so incredible. I felt reinvigorated by the power of nature, and I was reassured that the universe was still capable of blowing our minds in spite of our desensitized society.

The next solar eclipse in the US will sweep up

the eastern third of the country in April of 2024. Sadly, it will miss the Smokies, but I (and likely many of the people who were in Cades Cove with me) won’t miss it for the world. Never before had I witnessed a singular event that was so awe-inspiring, and I would do practically anything for a chance to experience it again. Nothing man-made comes close to inspiring the emotions we all felt that day; in a somewhat ironic twist, it seemed that the true power of this natural event was to make us feel human.

Photo by: Paul Noah Eno

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Optimal Management of Renewable Resources Martin Smith

Controlly Optolly Clark, Colin “double U” wrote an equation so fish stocks don’t tank.

Delta is F PRIME X. Isoclines-intersect.

Fish in the sea grow like cash in the bank.

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Kelsey Rowland “Whaley Beautiful” Acrylic paint

Joyce Huang “Overgrown” Oil paint and paper

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Unsui (Clouds and Water) (fragments) Linda C. Ehrlich

wandering monks “cloud and water” Floating villages and floating schools survive somehow.

Floating forests.

Water can be carried in leather bags, or long bamboo containers, or copper buckets, On land we long for the peace of the ocean On water, we long for the firmness of land, Peace fashioned out of clouds and water.

We have written our names on the water, in hundreds of languages. Carefully, carelessly, with driftwood and blotches of oil.

A woman walks out onto the black carpet of the ocean, leaving no trace. Her steps are as light as a hand moving across silk. The wind does not press her down. Entrusting in others, and in the wisdom of the stars, a woman walks out across the black ocean field, relinquishing all sound, rocked by the gentle Waist of the ocean.

The ocean has a white mouth and a black belly. Ships cruise along its skin. The ocean has a black skin and white teeth.

Living by one of the Great Lakes with its deceptively calm surface and contaminated sediment on the bottom of the lake, a Native American woman carries prayers to the water of each Lake, offering her thanks.

An African king’s daughter is transformed into a river.

Water gongs. The tone of water, as Plastic gyros spin out of control, and Exile washes up on shore.

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Entrance to the wave, Arizona

FEATURED ARTIST: GORDON LI Gordon Li, a second year Duke graduate student pursuing a Master’s in Energy and Environmental Management, is not only this year’s featured artist but also the photographer of this issue’s cover.

Besides being involved in the Nicholas School of the Environment as president of the NicNats, he spends his free time hiking, snowboarding, and climbing. Eno sat down with Gordon to learn about his insights, experiences, and artistic goals.

How did you fall in love with photography?

I was lucky enough to live within a walking distance to my high school. In between this commute was a shoddy park at the back of a mall parking lot with a broken fence that I wedge myself through every day. I was a shy kid that liked salamanders, and the place was a teeming with them. I remember I convinced my mom to get me the latest and greatest camera phone, the Sony K800i, with a crazy 3.2 MP camera so I could film those little guys.

What kind of equipment do you use?

My first “real” camera was the Nikon d60 back in 2008 that came in a kit with 2 lenses. I now use primarily my Nikon d7200 because I was reluctant to part ways with a couple lenses that’s been with me for over a decade. Oh, and of course, my trusty iPhone 8. With the right composition, the picture quality is incredible.

Is there a specific theme to which you feel most connected to?

Dolphin Pod, Channel Islands National Park, California

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Historically, my photos focus on landscape and nature on a macro level. This seemed to diverge, and I found that some of my recent shots to be granular, focusing on natural patterns, colors, and shapes. Lately, I’ve been pushing myself to try out portrait photography with a mix of willing and unwilling candidates. Just like my life, it’s kind of everywhere. With all that said, the only thing that is consistent is that I rely on natural light unless I have no other choice.

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Sunset at Kahuku Wind Farm, Oahu, Hawaii

How would you describe the connection between photography and conservation?

How do you want people to interpret your photos when they are looking at your work?

What photography really excels at doing is connecting the audience emotionally to a subject. Step into any Nat Geo photo gallery and it’s hard to not feel inspired to do something more. A well-framed photo conveys a narrative like no other medium can – that’s what’s unique about pictures. A good example of this can be seen in one of my favorite series, “Tales by Light”, that follows a bunch of photographers that uses photos to inspire and tell stories on the most critical natural and humanitarian issues.

When someone praises me for a photo I’ve taken, I usually reply that I was just at the right place at the right time. In fact, most of my photos are unplanned.

Sometimes the light plays nice, the result is the picture before you. I try to minimize post-processing to share with you what I’m seeing at that moment. Hobbies are indicative of what you’re interested in. What you photograph is usually what you enjoy the most.

In this case, it’s rocks, waves, and trees. Apologies to all humans, but I’m working on it!

Lion King but with My Dog Kimo, Golden Gate National Recreational Area, California

Gordon on top of the half dome, Yosemite National Park, California

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Eric Burton Trying to Look Dadish but Turns Out Majestic, Pisgah National Forest, North Carolina

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Photo by: Tianqi Wu

Between two high notes The melody gives a crack Long enough To allow my entire selfhood to enter Like a fish jumping back Into the night water

Cracking

Changming Yuan

Both the fish and I leave no Trace behind us, and the world Remains undisturbed as we swim Deeper and deeper in blue silence Upon my return, I find the music Still going on, while the fish has Disappeared into the unknown

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Bee Aware

John Grey

We dip down into where sun and flower collaborate to manufacture nectar and pollen so as to gather, digest and absorb, metabolize, regurgitate and store.

And yes, we buzz a little.

That’s what you hear.

The honey in your ear.

Photo by: William Hanley

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On the Duke Forest John Lane

We look through Nettie’s pine board window that’s not a window anymore. We buzz through Nettie’s screen like one of the honey bees kept by her father, Potato Will. We calculate the distance to her last crop, since complicated by trees, some ruined, some younger. We open up Nettie’s space, once field for farming, now endowment, now experiment in the imagination. We marvel at Nettie’s view, now worth much more than a dollar an acre. It’s a cold day, safe for this speculation. We horde Nettie’s dowry, the farmer’s friend, winter sun on the last soil butchered by Brightleaf.

Photo by: Emily Melvin 30

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Photo by: Virginia Frediani

Photo by: Virginia Frediani

The Hummingbird

Arroyo Hondo

Kendall M. Jeffreys

Alexie Rudman

Creature of quiet air And serene solitude Seen not fair But as multitudes

An ode to the high desert runs The golden light before the setting sun The dusty road to the gorge banks The smell of wet sagebrush and afternoon rains.

An ode to the bid wide-open skyFurious hummingbirds zipping by Recklessly driving on Blueberry Hill The looming Sangre de Cristos, And the silent desert Still.

Brightness or displays Not hers to flash The hummingbird splays Feathers iridescent – dashed Only in moments Of closeness, face To face with beauty Seen in seconds Forgotten as she Flies farther away Plant flowers sweet, And she may stay Eno

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Photo by: Paul Noah I cannot ignore the hooves above the headwaters the wind’s abundant gathering of stillness and wet stone those insects their joined lives over the ridge a caribou and her calf beyond where I can go Randy Stoltmann died in Huchsduwachsdu Nuyem Jees but please let me know that they are waiting

Spatsizi Carved of Rib Graden Froese

as a glacier for slow death as an island for its drowning as a sun-bleached antler as torn grass as high alpine fish please just let me make it until spring the melt let me wash myself once more step into the sun then you have your way wind and soft grass I will lie down when you tell me it is time

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Photo by: Lauren Carley

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Joyce Huang “Contemplation” Oil paint and paper

A Moment’s Breath Branch Tanner Archer

For life had not been fun, I must admit, The past few days a pain. A broken vow: “From loneliness shall I help you remit.”

One night I left the library. Allow Me to explain the strange sensation I Had felt, the one that changed my life. Just how?

POETRY CONTEST WINNER

Once laughter ends the second phase alights The phase of mirth of happiness content.

Now I looked up at skies of night despite The leaves of trees nearby. My heart’s ascent To stars that fly so high. No thought had I Now up above a land and world so bent

You’ll see, with patience please progress. “Goodbye!”

Said I, the house of books receding now.

On grounding hearts and dreams. The man nearby Aluminum I rode that night, a spry Was not the same from up above. His cares Were his and mine were mine. The stars, thereby, Gray bike my guide this time, no bird nor cow.

This friend of mine was one of old, the tick Had freed my heart of loneliness despairs.

Of clocks could not quite part. With time my brow A nature quest of self had changed my mind.

A cosmos web; a miracle affair Grew wet with sweat. A stick? A slick? A brick?

Not I nor you will know—the cause of my Of life, just one, that’s all it gives, one bind.

Short fall is not what matters most. A thick A truth I found in purple sky in lights That twinkle far away. Now realigned Abundant patch of grass, a strip nearby On which my flying form could land devoid My bike and I, complete in nature’s rites.

Of pain. No blade of grass could hide the eye My nebula adrift, the single breath, That changed my life. We waved goodbye, goodnight.

Of strangers passing by. At first, annoyed, My body-bike conjoined, I only sought One thing, one goal: the stranger’s eye avoid!

Then something wonderful occurred. No thought Had I like this before. I laughed, guffawed No stop to come, my heartfelt laugh, onslaught Of joy! How much I wished on my night walk That I could see a sight like this, a sight Hysterical, the gift of laughing stock.

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