Eno issue 5

issue 5 | 2016

prose • poetry • photograph • a r1 t enoy magazine

Editors: Kara Grosse & Kati Moore Associate Editors: Pauline Grieb, Conor Makepeace, Nathan Miller Layout & Design: Pauline Grieb & Conor Makepeace Faculty Advisor: Rebecca Vidra The printing of eno is generously supported by the Nicholas School Dean's Office and the Office of Development and Alumni Relations.

Duke University Nicholas School of the Environment Durham, NC www.enomag.org submissions@enomag.org Printed by Millennium Print Group Morrisville, NC www.mprintgroup.com Printed on recycled paper using renewable energy.

Cover photo by Binbin Li. What is eno? eno is a student publication founded in 2011 that gets its name from the Eno River in North Durham and from the Eno people, natives who occupied the land prior to European settlement.

The name reflects our connection to the places we live, work, and play, and more broadly, 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 forms.

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

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Photo by Juliana Mayhew

letter from the editors As busy students, caught up in meetings, assignments, and homework, it is easy to forget what inspired us to come to a school of the environment in the first place. Eno attempts to re-establish that connection with nature by showcasing creative work that can only be inspired by a fascination with the natural world. As the Nicholas School celebrates its 25th year, we strive to remind ourselves what brought us all together: a love of nature and a desire to manage it well for generations to come. In this issue you will find writing, photographs, and artwork that celebrate both the diversity and the interconnectedness of our world. We hope you enjoy.

Kara Grosse & Kati Moore

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contents PHOTOGRAPHY

2 4 6 7 8

Juliana Mayhew Noah White Conor Makepeace Seth Sykora-Bodie Jeanne Shi Linnea Leith Nicholas Castillo

10 13 14 17

Sam Kelly Jeanne Julian Jeanne Shi Ryan Huang

Shane Cashin Richard Ruiz

20 22 23 24 27 32 34

Emma Biggerstaff Sara Cleaver Juliana Mayhew Jordan Lucore Wout Salenbien Mathew Pattillo Binbin Li

ARTWORK

12 Carolyn Sun 16 Alex Brooks 23 Arjun Ramesh 28 Audrey Wang 29 Gina Ramseur 4

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Photo

by

Noah White

FEATURE ESSAY

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A Year on Masonboro Island John Wolfe

SHORT STORY

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Greatness Adrienne Laniak

POETRY

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Buffalo Faye Goodwin

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Acid rain's blithe relief Meagan Knowlton

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Viva La Tomato & Turtle Earth Sam Love

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Migratory Restlessness Mary Hennessy

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Spring Cleaning the Pond Esther Whitman Johnson

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On the Trail Sumeet Patwardhan

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Wild Things Faye Goodwin

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The Earth's Feet Anthony Hung

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Eve Picks Apples in the Orchard Lily Clarke

Queen Anne's Lace Jennifer Weiss

Good Weather Maya Cough-Schulze

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Why I Walk in the Morning & Zen Garden Genevieve Fitzgerald

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Pachamama Holds Her Children Close Esther Whitman Johnson

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Monarch Madness Esther Whitman Johnson

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The Bear and Me Leslie Pardue

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Gabrielle Benitez eno magazine

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buffalo Faye Goodwin Standing on a rock blinking snow all brown-gold and watercolor sky Standing still and quietly seizing with sight, with vision in the windy morning, I bless the air fervently How hard can I look at the buffalo.

How long can I look at the buffalo.

And they glance at me, at us, in our mossy red stillness on the rock, peering over the fence with insatiable eyes for anything that breathes, as we breathe Great bears, floury whales dark bobbing in the prairie snow, I don’t know why I need them.

Why I want to taste the gray trees bent under snow, hold them in my mouth for long hours melting on my tongue.

The scrappy bushes, wiry and untouchable like the coyotes waking up, their ears turning just above the golden feathers of snow and grass, tails down If I loped behind them in the biting sky, the top of my head would open and at last I would be small, porous, But their secrets, I would masticate, with my windy wild museum eyes.

My eyes for clocks and stocks and bricks and books, cooking broiling in their sockets I’d roll them into the icy brooks, sink them in the snow Give them to the buffalo.

Photo by Conor Makepeace eno magazine 6

acid rain's blithe relief Meagan Knowlton Come ramble through the brush with me Come tumble through the weeds And if, by chance, you go with me— The Earth will smile as she bleeds.

I’ve heard that crying, wounded hearts Whose views are tinted jade Are held in Gemini’s loving carts Past every dullen, splintered blade.

If I had seen each flower melt In Sorrow’s acid rain— The tristesse that she must have felt The cosmic stress she was to gain.

Come pick me up, and brush each fleck Of défaite off my eyes And off we’ll go on Gaia’s deck To frolic through the crying skies.

Photo by Seth Sykora-Bodie eno magazine 7

Jeanne Shi

Nicholas Castillo

Linnea Leith

Photo by

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POEMS BY SAM LOVE

Viva La Tomato With hints of seasonal warmth the tiny seeds break open in the small peat pots signaling the emerging spring Soon the seedlings can be lovingly placed into the garden soil nourished with compost, crab shells and rock phosphate As the calendar pages turn yellow blooms explode on green stems until like magic the flowers transform into miniature green tomatoes When spring gives way to summer’s heat the fruitlings grow in diameter until hints of red, yellow, orange announce a culinary reward is coming When fully ripened the sharp knife’s first slice creates an olfactory explosion ready to titillate the tongue The deep red slices stand as a revolutionary counterpoint to factory farmed imposters

Turtle Earth The Lenape creation story: Nanapush asks who will let me put the cedar branches on top of you so that all the animals can live on you?

And the turtle said, “you can put them on me and I’ll float on the water.”

In a vision the Native American holy man sees the animals bring earth from under the water to make land on the back of the turtle to create a continent, a verdant Eden where plants and animals flourish In another dream the Indian shaman sleeps a long sleep and awakens to see a barren steampunk turtle filled with writhing serpents thrashing their rattler tails through portals in the armor plated earth’s shell This hollow eerie sound resonates with a dry rattle of primordial notes memorializing the emerging death of nature

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Photos by Sam Kelly eno magazine 10

Photo by Xavier Basurto

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Artwork by Carolyn Sun

Migratory Restlessness Mary Hennessy Just prior to migration, white-crowned sparrows reduce their sleep time by two-thirds...

Meg Lowman How to explain this circling in the night?

Already south of everything, where to go?

In the distance, students play Dvorak’s New World Symphony, a new world almost visible in fledgling eyes. Hollow bones set to trembling like a tuning fork.

The sky, dark-lidded, electric as a bee swarm sings a self-excited song.

Digging around the fennel skeletons

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I stand to hear it better—a round song like night wanderings, like the shape of the route Odysseus (I never bought his story for a minute) took trying to get home.

Take me or leave me here one more day.

Chickpea soup simmers in the unlit kitchen.

My pajamas not slept in.

A few more moments to stay close to the fennel— hold me close to the storm.

Spring Cleaning the Pond Esther Whitman Johnson Up to my knees in the creek that feeds the murky pond, I heave a broken limb to the bank, certain a blocked culvert is the culprit. I pull out branches and hubcaps before the villains appear— plastic bags, plastic boxes, plastic bottles —damming the flow.

The pond’s filled with debris, marring memories of skating on ice two feet thick, my mother etching figure eights on frozen ebony, a fire roaring on the bank.

I trudge home, call Parks and Rec: Check the pond. Geese were there two weeks ago, now not a living thing.

Next day, the cleaning fountain’s on, spray pushes scum away, ducks waddle on the shore. Sweet, I smile, self-satisfied.

The people’s park, the people’s pond.

On the Trail Sumeet Patwardhan A butchered deer.

Ribcage unfurled.

Spine split like lumber.

Prints in the soil.

Wriggling grubs ransack the corpse.

Fly colonies squat and gorge.

Dizzying reek.

Trembling camera in my hands.

Keepsake bone in my pocket.

Blind eyes ogling me.

Then— in two days a truck appears, city workers prepping for the Easter Hunt beside the pond, marking lines in pastel chalk, throwing eggs onto the field— green, blue, yellow, pink.

Plastic.

Photo by Jeanne Julian eno magazine 13

wild things Faye Goodwin I learned to love on the flea-ridden alley kittens And box turtles chipped like china in the backyard Tigers pacing, the smell of urine and hay I learned to love at a safe distance From a mother who never taught me about men But saved the spiders in the bathroom And made sure I knew that an animal is not put here for me to touch, To pet or play with or to own But belong to the forests and skies And are not ruled by our kind of death.

If I love you, then, I’ll love you like the egret with the broken wing That flew into our house in the ice storm last winter Like the coyote loping across the road at dawn Which is to say From a distance.

It means I’ll love the wild thing, and the hurt, and the scavenger And have no pity for prey.

If you wander in to sleep by my fire, at the foot of my bed, If you choose to be domesticated, I’ll give you all I have I’ll hold you, then.

But you, who are a wild thing, a flying thing, If you one day fall silent Or hear your wild kin call, My arms will be no cage for you, my heart no pen And this is why I stand in the yard with open gates The birds in hedges, empty hands, happy.

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the earth's feet Anthony Hung EMERGENT

The Earth, Her feet, have moved at different speeds; From dusts of stars She formed when time was young.

Though in Her youth Her feet had not yet sprung, The elements spread forth their hidden seeds.

In ancient times, the Earth could not exceed A pace, so slow, unlike what She’d become.

She lacked for aeons any means to run, No legs or sturdy feet to start stampedes.

But life rose, swimming, floating on her face, Her feet were small -- and feeble -- without aim, Nor power strong enough to crawl afar.

These feet did not have reason to make haste, As life did not traverse across terrain; The limits of these feet were firm and sharp.

UPRIGHT

The limits of these feet were firm and sharp, But as Her feet evolved to greater strengths, And grew the need to crawl to greater lengths, They walked instead; on two strong feet embarked; These upright feet did work, dispelled the dark, Tamed fire; other feet for their defense.

Through gathering their intellect immense, The Earth herself was something they’d outsmart; When multiplied, these feet spread ‘cross the land; A hundred thousand years they stretched their toes, Until not one but every continent Had feet. These feet were no more bound by sand.

Their territory grew; their ships breached coasts; Now over fire, water, dominant.

DOMINANT

Now over fire, water, dominant, The feet had mastered Earth and held free reign, Unfettered, all their glory unrestrained.

But nothing did they know of detriments; Of reckless running; of contaminants.

This burning fuel for progress would cause strain.

Although the feet ran quickly, without sprains; On Earth herself, on her inhabitants

They slashed deep wounds. But all this time She’d wait, As energetic feet stamped without thought, A mass extinction -- on horizons near.

And unaware of nearing dire straits, Feet stamped to build their cultures overwrought.

Blue skies turned bleak; were dark; no longer clear.

EXTINCT

When skies turned bleak; were dark; no longer clear, When feet discerned mistakes too late to fix, When Sun and Moon and Stars were all eclipsed, Their confidence, alas, gave way to fear.

But fear arrived too late, as glaciers rare Dissolved and flowed, the waters met and mixed, Great seas began to flood the coasts amidst A fade from green to black, which left lands bare.

The exponential change which came to Earth When feet, momentum strong, had kept their pace Now ceased abruptly; feet unbalanced fell.

For since they did not break the fatal curse, Unbridled speed brought end to frenzied race, Remains of upright feet are tales to tell.

PERSISTENT

Remains of upright feet are tales to tell, But Earth maintains Her circuit round the sun, For far from stationary in a slump, Despite Her lack of speed She’s still propelled.

And unperturbed, time works its graceful spell, And unperturbed, life pushes forth its front.

Though without feet as strong as former ones, The Earth again will populate Herself.

Resilient the hardy bits of life Will slowly, surely, find their pace increase, A constant march, but they will not fatigue.

For upright feet this slow pace would be strife, But to the Earth this pace, though slow, is peace, The Earth, Her feet, have moved at different speeds.

Photo by Jeanne Shi eno magazine

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Poetry____________________________________________________________________________________________

Eve Picks Apples in the Orchard Lily Clarke Eve bit into a Cortland and, finding its meat unpleasantly soft, she tossed it aside to pluck an Arkansas Black with crimson skin and tart flesh.

She filled her bushel basket with the good fruit and hauled it down the orchard to Adam, sitting on the porch, naming the animals.

Below, Arabian horses nibbled over buttercups, while Holsteins grumbled for alfalfa and hens, Rhode Island Red, glared from their high perches.

Adam surveyed the valley and Blue Ridge Mountains beyond and knew it was very good while clever Eve slid a platter of sliced apples to his side.

What a treat! Did Clarence help you pick these while I was busy thinking up names? Eve smiled at her simple husband, naked and naive in the rocking chair.

Alex Brooks

Queen Anne's Lace Jennifer Weiss Cupcake caps, meringue iced, afloat on summer’s sugared breezes, beckon our mariposa souls.

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We alight, frayed wings, striped underbodies and delight in their nectar sanctuaries.

Good Weather Maya Cough-Schulze Rain is good for thinking in, Sun is good for living in.

Mud is good for sinking in, Snow is good for drinking in.

Storms are good for loving in Breeze is good for hovering in For dragonflies with time to kill, when summer is a-coming in.

______________________________________________________________________________________Photography

Ryan Huang

Shane Cashin

Richard Ruiz eno magazine

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Masonboro Island, an eight-and-a-half-milelong estuarine research reserve on the southern coast of North Carolina.

Photo by John Wolfe

A Year on Masonboro Island John Wolfe

JANUARY In the expansive marsh behind Masonboro Island’s low dunes, the ever-present smooth cordgrass (Spartina alternaflora) lives up to its Latin name. The lush green tufts of summer are no more, a visual indication of seasonal change, the entrance into a period of quiet recovery for this sun-burnt landscape. Now the marsh is copper-brown and the water itself seems to rest somehow, as if its eyes were closed. It still sleepwalks through the tidal cycle (for water is never truly still, especially this close to its source) but there are no wavelets born of sweeping fish tails, no pelicans pierce it from above. The only thing that moves the water is the wind as it blows from the north, rippling the steel-grey surface into celestial undulations, patterns of archaic and repetitive beauty, oscillations of matter, energy, and time.

they will leave us to return to the freshwater lakes of Maine and Canada. The loon’s lonely call: a two-toned mournful howl, low and then high, that tapers off into an otherworldly lycanthropic echo that melts into the marsh, mingling with the rustle of cordgrass in the wind.

JUNE In the warm dusk, black skimmers (Rhynchops niger) fly low over the water’s edge with the long lower mandible of their red-black beaks submerged, the hair-trigger tongue waiting to sense prey and snap the beak shut.

When they fly they are graceful and boomerangshaped, black forms arcing over the water in clusters of twos and threes, airborne ballerinas of the marsh. Their call is a hoarse bark: auk auk auk. Like the tourists who have come to gawk at this pristine low country, they MARCH The common loon (Gavia immer) floats alone in the are seasonal, fleeing to South America in wintertime, waters of Banks Channel far from shore. If I approach following the warm weather. But the birds have been one too closely it will throw me a dirty look, then visiting for longer. And they have a role to play here in dive under and reappear far away. They’re in breeding the ecosystem (although, perhaps the tourists do too: plumage now, a fine salt-and-pepper pattern on their providing the little beach town I live in with enough backside that contrasts with their bright red iris. Soon income to survive the cold winter).

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JULY On the fourth of July the shallow channel behind the island is crowded with tanned young bodies in bikinis and board shorts. They blare Jimmy Buffett and Zach Brown on their stereos, and tear through the water on polished white fiberglass boats with sleek lupine outboard engines. The holiday is a wild bacchanal, a celebration of life and bare flesh, power and youth and gasoline, replete with flip flops and grills and coolers brimming with beer. They throw empty cans and cigarette butts on the golden sand.

arms, and in my friend’s kitchen we scaled them and fried them in hot oil until the soft white flesh melted off the skeletons into our hungry mouths.

DECEMBER The beach is empty. The dull roar of surf against the sand. I am the only one on this entire eight-and-a-halfmile island on this chilly December day, undisputed sovereign of this shifting landscape. From my perch atop a dune I can clearly see the delineation between wilderness and civilization, between the pristine and the polluted. This island and its sister to the north, Wrightsville Beach, were identical uninhabited twins less than two centuries ago. But now Wrightsville is smothered under the usual concrete constructions of man, immovable beach houses which spring up like acne, multi-million-dollar echoes of Ozymandias.

Every three years the citizens petition the government to dredge new sand on their beach to buy their doomed houses more time, time that has been merely borrowed from the ocean. But the ocean always collects on its debts.

AUGUST The backside of the secondary dune is covered with a fine spider web of tawny olive-colored vines, the annual emergence of the dune bean (Strophyostyles helvola).

The lilac-purple flowers and the stubby green pods of late summer and early fall are the manna of the rodents and birds who live on this island. I plucked a pod from the vine once, to learn how my island tasted.

My rough thumbs broke the tender green shell to reveal the delicate legume inside. On my tongue it felt fuzzy as a cotton ball, and when I bit down the taste was tart and slightly bitter. It was not like the caged and canned HERE AND NOW, AND FOREVER beans I was used to. It tasted wild.

I have found arrowheads and pottery shards on this island, gifts of the past from the Cape Fear tribe who SEPTEMBER knew these ancestral dunes, these birds and plants Hurricane season. When a storm comes it’s a sharp and fish. Their legend occupies this place, providing reminder that this place is dynamic: always in motion, a backdrop of history to the rhythms of life which subject to the whim of the sea. The island is constantly continue to pulse here. The seasons change, the beach shifting, and in the lethal force of a hurricane the island’s erodes, the visitors come and go. The tide rises and movement intensifies, migrating inlets and flattening falls. But the sky, the marsh’s most prominent feature, dunes, building sandbars and swallowing beaches. For remains a pale blue dome over everything below it. The an island made entirely of sand, caught between the two feeling of empty and infinite distance, of eternity. Of most powerful eroding forces on the planet – wind and scale. When all that is above you is the low-cresting sun water – it’s a wonder it’s even here at all. and the pale moon you really feel yourself on the earth.

Triangulated. Defined in three-dimensional space. You NOVEMBER are here and nowhere else, in this place that exists in its The flounders are hibernating in the mud. Or at least present arrangement but briefly, for only the second it they’re not biting when you drop a delicious curl of takes for a wave in the ocean of time to crash against squid down to their level. Seventy-two degrees is the the shore. magic water temperature for fishing here -- any warmer John Wolfe is a North Carolina-based writer and essayist, as well and you catch a cornucopia of species, but colder than as a licensed captain. His work has been featured in encore, Devour, that and you’re lucky to get a bite. This year it stayed and Salt magazines. He is currently working on a book of his warm longer than usual, and the bluefish ran late. experiences sailing the ocean with the man who holds the world Muscled silver-blue prizefighters with sharp dagger record for longest sea voyage in history. When he’s not writing, he can be found on the water, reading, playing music, or drinking fine teeth, we pulled them from the depths one by one, over beer. Find him online at www.thewriterjohnwolfe.com. and over, until our cooler was full. I cradled them in my eno magazine

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cyanotype of a palm Photo by Emma Biggerstaff First painted with chemicals, then exposed to ultraviolet rays, the cyanotype employs a method of creating a photographic image that does not require a camera. This cyanotype was made in the Philippines using a local palm leaf and exposed to the noon heat of Manila in July.

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why i walk in the morning Why I walk in the morning when the sun isn’t quite when the leaves are still limp drooping low

I brush underneath Let remnants of rain make a net in my hair drizzle my forehead trickle down along side my nose find my lip linger there

PHOTO BY NATE CATTERSON

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I step under another low branch so the prickles of cool that gather make a run for my chin while the bead left behind on my eyelash as I move past the tree flashes peach

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Poems by Genevieve Fitzgerald

zen garden rain pocks the pond surface dimples the sky’s reflection grey like slate glowing rain swift as tiny rivers streaks the windows blurs the garden greener in the gloaming

rain weights bushes down the path bobs the lily pads where bullfrog sings glorious the little world

PHOTO BY JULIANA MAYHEW

PAINTING BY ARJUN RAMESH eno magazine

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Pachamama Holds Her Children Close Esther Whitman Johnson Children lost for centuries.

Gathers their souls into the folds of her woolen cloak, wraps herself round spirits fled, plants the dead to live once more.

Pipes croon ancient tunes calling cross high plateau, falling to jungle mist, swimming through crystal lake, drifting like petals onto the Island of the Moon.

Condor, puma, serpent, three in one, she weaves the tri-part world in unison, stitches cloth torn long ago, rent by warring gods— blue of sky, red of earth— makes it whole again, tucks her children safe within.

Pipes croon ancient tunes calling cross high plateau, falling to jungle mist, swimming through crystal lake, drifting like petals onto the Island of the Moon.

Pachamama: Earth Goddess, revered by indigenous peoples of the Andes

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Jordan Lucore

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Greatness The mountains tower over Cuzco as the

Adrienne Laniak just a tiny illuminated triangle in the valley below, four

plane begins its descent. Hovering over muddy huts and

girls and a Spanish guide to bend our necks back and

bustling plazas, the peaks hide behind rain clouds who

stare into immensity.

reign as kings over their sludgy territory. We land safely and after spending the day wandering stone roads, eating

When we crawl into our tents and curl in to the sleeping

25-cent ice creams, and buying overpriced paintings,

bags, the world seems even bigger. Thunder cracks and

our skin is burnt and we turn in for our last night with

the pounding of rain commences on our tarp. We are

pillows and blankets. Tomorrow we begin the four-day

so small; if I try to whisper to the other tent, my voice

Inca Trail.

quickly drowns out by the angel’s tears and the sky people bowling. Every night the rainstorm comes, making me

I don’t think it’s until we’re hours away from civilization,

not want to sleep or else I’ll miss the mountain’s music.

lost in the sounds of the forest and physically distanced

Our final day of the hike leads us to the infamous Incan

from simple human luxuries that we can realize our size.

ruins, Machu Picchu. We are in a city above the clouds,

Relatively, we’re a speck of dust on the mountainside, a

walking through ancient past and hidden dreams. Lost

grain of sand at the beach. As we follow our guide deep

but not forgotten, this Incan Empire holds firm by its

into the Andean Wilderness, the same wilderness that

ingenious craftsmanship and century sturdy masonry.

the ancient Incans had hiked centuries before us, our

Even walking within this place, something made by

surroundings grow bigger and we grow smaller.

man, our stature and presence feels nearly invisible in comparison.

The mountains are like castles, raised out of the earth and sucked into the sky. Thousands of meters high and

Valleys sink miles deep on all sides and we’re now face to

neighboring valleys on all sides, they hold history from

face with the “Apus” whose bases we formerly admired.

earth’s beginnings. Our guide tells us that the Incans

It’s a city in the sky, a collection of walls and worship

(and the Andeans still today) know them as “Apus” or

rooms that are carved into nature’s permanence.

mountain Gods. To them, the earth is alive, and after

It’s a big place, one of magnitude, and the one who made

a while, it’s easy to feel like each mountain really has a

it is the most permanent greatness.

distinct personality, soaring skinny or lopsided, yet bold and strong into the upward blue.

At night the region grows even bigger. Before we sleep the stars come out and we sit talking over coca tea with Richi our guide. The night is quiet and still, beckoning eyes to the bright dots that scatter for miles. Some fall, they’re shooting, but their absence makes no difference to the sea of lights. It’s big, this sky of greatness, and we’re

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Photo by Wout Salenbien

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« art Monarch Madness ESTHER WHITMAN JOHNSON Barbara’s butterflies fall from the sky on their way from Michoacan, finding foster homes in Carolina hills.

Tremors brought sodden land pouring down the mountainside, wiping out the nests they knew in midwestern Mexico.

This halfway house in the south saves the species a short while from warming waves across the globe.

Locals in their native land believe these gems of black and gold are souls of children dead beating wings heavenward, flitting toward cathedrals in the sky, searching for life again.

Barbara, how you’ve frightened me, living in this eastern zone, for I fear I might see butterflies migrate for real, north into my own backyard, I responsible for their home.

cut paper by gina ramseur

butterfly cocoon in paisley Audrey Wang eno magazine

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the bear and me Leslie Pardue

I’ll tell you a story, and to help set the mood,

They were shining their flashlights around and about

You ought to indulge in some chocolaty food.

And talking excitedly as they pointed him out.

So please break it out and have some to eat,

He was at a safe distance, so we didn’t feel danger

And I’ll tell you a tale that’s both bitter and sweet.

And so no one bothered to summon the ranger.

A number of years ago, three friends went with me

I’d been a camper since I was a tyke.

Camping in the mountains of East Tennessee.

Bear sightings were common, and something I liked.

We didn’t go seeking adventure or glory

I always enjoyed any chances to see

But I returned home with my best-ever bear story.

Big animals roaming the park wild and free.

Camping is a favorite pastime of mine;

The bear wandered off and the crowd then soon dwindled.

Time spent in the woods is serene and sublime.

All the campers returned to the campfires they’d kindled.

So I try to go camping whenever I’m able,

Having seen a wild bear, such a beautiful sight,

And I don’t even miss my Time-Warner Cable.

The campers prepared to bed down for the night.

Don’t miss the newspaper, nor the TV,

As the moon rose above me I went back to camp.

I like getting a break from the world’s misery.

The fire had died down and I blew out the lamp.

Don’t miss the computer and don’t miss the phone,

My friend took her turn and she went to the loo.

Nor any of the gadgets I have in my home.

My sleeping bag beckoned, and I knew what to do.

On the night of the campout the weather was nice;

I crawled down inside it and snuggled in tight,

All the creatures were stirring, including the mice.

And prepared to enjoy my rest for the night.

We had a nice dinner and sat by the fire,

As a treat before bedtime I’d saved from my lunch

And soon we were yawning as we started to tire.

Peanut M&Ms, which I proceeded to munch.

Two friends took the tent, a flimsy affair,

Their chocolaty goodness was the perfect way

An undersized pup tent with no room to spare.

To wrap up the end of a long summer’s day.

While I and the third a more rustic place found

I ate about half with the stars overhead,

Outside by the fire in our bags on the ground.

And I tucked the remainder down into my bed.

I trekked to the restroom, last time for the night.

Soon I was drowsy, my eyes started to close,

And there I beheld an interesting sight.

And with crickets a-chipping I started to doze,

A bevy of campers had gathered to see

When suddenly a twig snapped and brought me around.

A big old black bear somewhere off in the trees.

I propped myself up to see what made the sound.

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The fire was still glowing, it gave off some light,

Having a bear check you out is quite strange,

Enough to allow me some limited sight.

As is hearing its snuffling and shuffling at close range.

On the edge of the campsite I could just barely see

All I could do was be still and play dead

The shape of a bear as it ambled towards me.

While he looked for the chocolate buried down in my bed.

I’d heard many times from the park’s many rangers,

He sniffed me all over, from my head to my toe,

Keep your food in the car to avoid bear dangers.

Somehow missing the candy, he decided to go.

But it was much too late now to put candy away

He ambled away, I don’t know where he went,

For the bear had smelled chocolate and was headed my way.

But I jumped up and scrambled my way to the tent.

Now I had heard stories about what bears could do,

There wasn’t much room, but we had to make do,

How one swipe of a paw could take your head off of you.

When the other returned we made room for her too.

I imagined the headline, in all caps and quite grim:

We spent several hours awake and in fright,

“Camper beheaded over mere M&Ms.”

Imagining the bear would return for a bite.

All I could think of to keep me from harm

And thinking of how our poor pup tent would fare,

Was to cover my head with my hands and my arms.

When met with the claws and the jaws of a bear.

I cowered there fearing I’d die or be dragged

So we didn’t sleep much as we dreaded the beast,

Off into the woods in my old sleeping bag.

And were thrilled when the sun finally rose in the east.

The bear approached closer, he picked up his pace

I went home to my family and told of the bear,

And soon I could feel his warm breath on my face.

How he breathed in my face and gave me a good scare.

I opened an eye and what should I see,

They didn’t believe me, but what could I do?

But a big hairy bear staring right back at me.

I personally had lived it so I knew it was true.

I told myself, “Hey, there’s not much to fear,

I survived to go camping many more times,

Maybe he’ll take just my nose, or an ear,

And even to tell the bear story in rhymes.

And don’t bears just eat mostly berries and such?

I’ve had other adventures, but none can compare,

They don’t often eat meat, and when they do, it’s not much.”

To getting sniffed over by a big old black bear.

But reason is fleeting when a bear’s in your face,

The moral of this story is quite plain to see:

And logic’s abandoned, leaving scarcely a trace.

A bear in my face is just too close for me.

So I was left trembling, awaiting my fate,

So when camping in bear country, don’t press your luck,

Not wanting to be known as “the one the bear ate.”

Keep all M&Ms in your car or your truck!

Photo by Ira Dorband

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Mathew Pattillo 32

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Binbin Li 34

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Afterword Gabrielle Benitez The problem is not needing to speak for the trees oceans, rivers, wind, rain the birds and the bees no, there’s salt in my blood and breeze on my lips rather, the trees speak for me: here, the birds sing my song and the rhythms of tides echo my stuttering heart the beat of my footsteps, besides ‌there are rivers in my veins! the air in my lungs is the breath of a forest

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