eno Magazine Issue 9

ISSUE 9 | 2020 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: Julia Whitten, Alicia Zhao, Mali Velasco, Grace Chan, Karen Gilbert, Angela Hessenius, Kathleen Mason, Irene Park, Beatrice Smith, Hannah Smith, Ayse Trail Faculty Advisors: Ann Thurston & Rebecca Vidra Cover photo by: Daniel Parlock Location: New River Gorge National River Area, West Virginia

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 sites.duke.edu/enomag enosubmissions@gmail.com

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Photo by: Elisabeth McElwee Location: Eno Monongahela National Forest, West Virginia

Letter from the editors: This year, eno worked to bring celebrations of nature to our community through art, poetry, short stories, film, and music. We hosted events painting on the Grainger Hall roof, screening a film about the future of wild fish, making wreaths in the Grainger Hall courtyard, and held our first ever open mic night at Devil’s Krafthouse. Thank you to everyone who has helped make this magazine possible by submitting your work, and to all the people who attended our events and helped us build community through art and the environment. 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.

Julia, Alicia, Mali, Grace, Karen, Angela, Kathleen, Irene, Bea, Hannah, & Ayse Eno

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Contents Featured Artist Maddie Paris................................... 22-23

Photographers Angela Hessenius.....................................30 Anthony Garza.................................4-5, 13 Daniel Parlock...................................Cover Elisabeth McElwee.................................2-3 Elizabeth Howard....................................20 Haley Jackson..............................11, 24, 33 Janet Bering.......................................18, 19 Julia Whitten...........................................14 Julianna Schroeger..............................7, 31 Lianna Gomori-Ruben..........................34 Maddie Paris...............................11, 25, 30 Maggie Smith..........................................13 M.C. Murphy...................................8-9, 27 Mike Campton..................................12, 39 Pat French..........................................36-37 Paul Noah..............................16-17, 33, 38 Sara Sayed................................................27 Tianqi Wu................................................31

Artists Angela Gamber.......................................10 Bill Chameides........................................35 Kendall M. Jefferys.................................11 Kyle Cornish.......................................6, 32 Trish Morales..........................................21 Yvonne Lee........................................28, 29

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Photo by: Anthony Garza Eno Duke Gardens Location:

Poets Angela Hessenius....................................25 Anna Nissley......................................13, 38 Betty Jamerson Reed..............................20 Chiara Klein*....................................10, 37 James Fleming.......................................9 Johanna Kluck..........................................7 Julia Bingham.............................17, 24, 35 Julia Whitten...........................................15 Kendall M. Jefferys.................................32 Susan Schmidt..................................26, 28

Short Story Authors Janet Bering**...................................18-19 Lianna Gomori-Ruben..........................34

*Poetry Contest Winner: “Rainy season in my heart“ & “Let me list the ways in which I explode” **Short Story Contest Winner: “Blue”

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Kyle Cornish “Upheaval” 6 Mixed media collage

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Bird

Johanna Kluck There’s a bird in my house, And it hasn’t learned yet, How to fly without stumbling out of its nest.

It knocks down my picture frames, Pecks at my fans, There’s feathers in all of my pots, plates, and pans.

There’s a bird in my house, And my focus is gone, Cause it flutters whenever I think for too long.

And I’ve chased it for hours, Turned days, turned to years, But it flickers and flits through my drapes and my fears.

There’s a bird in my house, But I’m letting it be, Cause to chase it takes too much of my energy.

Now I pity the bird, And I pity my home, Because nothing of worth comes from birds left alone.

Photo by: Julianna Schroeger Location: Botswana

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Photo by: M.C. Murphy Location: Torres Del Paine National Park, Chile 8

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Blue Marble James Fleming in lustrous glory this shimmering orb streaked blue white and rust sits not too far from the sun as relative distances go

most remarkable are all of life’s forms organisms abounding on the surface, beneath it, and far below in ocean depths

not at all like our other planets shielded as we are by a magnetic field emanating from a molten iron core protecting us from cosmic rays and bombardment from storms of rogue electrons shot from deep space

but not all is serene— creatures are born to live and to struggle one devouring the other and to reproduce themselves and then to perish and in that process life is perpetually maintained and continues to evolve over the millennia yet in certain regions amidst this chaos can sometimes be found caring and even sometimes love

under its surface crust a semi-liquefied outer core moves entire continents over the centuries such movements imperceptible in our own time

what would all of this mean to alien visitors should they come a-calling? (if there are aliens) is it possible that we are alone in this vast universe? statistically unlikely so say the experts yet it could only be the very rare system that could begin to support this marvelous marble that is our planet and our home

beneath the white clouds it’s mostly covered by blue-green oceans the rest being land forms— magisterial mountains sparse deserts thick green forests and here and there cities and settlements constructed by human beings

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let me list the ways in which I explode Chiara Klein

let me list the ways in which I explode: in stardust, when the moon dissolves the sky, in lavender, when the breeze is sweet and warm, in a salty tempest, when my heart runs scared.

I watch the children with their cockle shells the size of mixing bowls, trailing molted innocence through tidal pools. as they work themselves into fits over the trauma of sand in their eyes, I drift off into silence, words stuck in my throat, my eyes on the horizon.

I am too young to help them, & too old to play in their pools.

Angela Gamber “Dear Deer Pelvis�

Watercolor 10

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POETRY CONTEST WINNER

Photo by: Haley Jackson Location: Cape Romain National Wildlife Refuge, South Carolina

Photo by: Maddie Paris Location: Galapagos Islands

Kendall M. Jefferys “Loggerhead Turtle” Color pencil

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Photo by: Mike Campton Location: Bonn, Germany 12

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Photo by: Maggie Swift

Slip Knot

Anna Nissley

Through a trees’ leaves see the city, glistening metal that stuns reflecting the sun.

Closer see the city tree uproot the sidewalk send it shattering in slow motion crevices that defy difference: a tree will do what is wishes.

The city tree and the forest tree what’s the difference?

The difference is in the termed tame world, and the wild one.

What wild? Which?

I and the world, forest and city tree, separate: that is the lie.

Wreathed together me and the world this tree and that fault line and chasm hammock between two trees tied with a slip knot.

Photo by: Anthony Garza Location: Duke Gardens

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Photo by: Julia Whitten Location: Jones Pass, Colorado

Photo by: Julia Whitten Location: Colorado 14

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Becoming a Mountain

Julia Whitten Inspired by “Become a Mountain” by Dan Deacon I am becoming a mountain Yesterday I exclaimed that into the night Into the chill Through my scarf Phone pressed to ear “I am becoming a mountain!”

“You’re a mountain?”

“No I’m not I’m becoming one.”

Now I know why I always find gravel in my shoes And mud caked onto my boots Why the cold is so unexpected -The weather changes so quickly.

The canopy isn’t so dense anymore Perhaps I’m nearing treeline.

I am becoming a mountain Because I can see myself now.

I can feel legs Getting heavy, getting strong.

I do not tower.

I slowly rise And shroud myself in fog Every morning and some days.

Some days I’ll be the Smokies Ancient I’ll hide salamanders and creeks And hollers Covered, thick, green.

Rhododendrons.

Pan for gold and you just might find it.

Other days I’ll be the Rockies Emerald ponds Ridgelines clear day after day New and proud And tall But it’s all perspective You see I’ve been a mountain And I’m becoming one I know now what I know and say what I see I can be sunrise or sunset Some days, both.

Today my feet tread softly And my peak is more of a knoll But even a foothill is A mountain to an ant And canyons can be mountains to crows Tomorrow I’ll keep becoming a mountain a sureness, A certainty That grows and grows and grows

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15 Photo by: William Hanley

Photo by: Paul Noah Location: Mt. Rainier, Washington 16

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You are perfectly Small Julia Bingham

Sitting at the ocean’s edge

watch immense thundering waves betray

stillness in a flat horizon beneath colossal sky Clambering for hours to a snow dust peak

breathe in the sprawling ridges and dales

they lounge, more massive than imagination Staring up the impossibly tall impossibly wide red trunk

realize you’ll never see the top branches

you can touch Sequoia and still not understand its enormity Interrupt anxiety, force a pause the world is so enormous and you you are beautifully minute and what you fear matters matters matters matters matters matters it just Doesn’t and you are Small Enough to breathe.

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SHORT STORY CONTEST WINNER

Blue

Janet Bering

Photo by: Janet Bering

Earlier this trip someone asked me what my favorite color is. I responded by pointing to the shirt I was wearing: ice blue. I have many shirts that are this shade, one that is simultaneously rich in color but almost white. I said at the time that this was kind of the color of the ocean.

I realize now that I was wrong.

The color of the ocean far from land, the purest water, is a deep cobalt blue. This blue is all the light that touches the surface of the ocean and is scattered and reflected and sent back to our eyes. With nothing in the ocean but water, mostly, the color is deep and dark. In areas with lots of productivity, the green phytoplankton turn the ocean into an aquamarine color. It is startling to see when you pass such an area, but on our trip we have not seen that as much. Instead we have been surrounded; out in the middle of the Atlantic it has seemed as if the deep blue water, cut by the white caps on the swells, goes on for eternity in all directions, both towards the horizon and down towards the depth. The light doesn’t penetrate all the way down, of course - if it did the ocean would be the color of the seafloor.

Instead the deep blue reflected back, hiding what is below the surface.

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At the horizon, the color changes from deep cobalt to a pale white-blue. This blue is much lighter than the color of the sea, and it the color of my shirts. As you look up, the sky the blue becomes deeper and richer. At the top of the dome, the sky is the pure, classic sky blue. The blue at the the top of the sky is often interspersed with puffy white clouds here in the tropics, further accentuating the purity of the color.

The color of the sky out at sea changes wildly as the sun sets. As the light of the sun dips below the horizon, the longer wavelengths - reds, oranges, yellows - are refracted and reflected and last much longer in the sky. The sky can be lavender, magenta, orange, tangerine, yellow, hot pink, red, eggshell, rose and deep purples all at once. The blue disappears first, loosing saturation quickly to become an exquisite lavender, and then a dark navy-purple as the sky darkens into night.

But the blue of my many blue shirts, I’ve realized, is not my favorite color. My favorite color is a distinctive blue I have only ever seen out at sea, hundreds of miles from any civilization, on nights when the moon has not risen. This is the blue of the stars. The night sky is not black and white, as us modern, citydwelling folk might believe. The background color is closer to a deep navy, but it shimmers, eluding my vocabulary to describe color.

Clouds that block the light from the stars appear black, which is the only way to know that the sky itself is indeed colored. The Milky Way is a green-white speckled streak across the northern portion of the sky. The stars themselves are a variety of colors, including pure white. Some stars, however, are reddish, some are yellowish, but my favorites are an electric blue-white. They are barely blue, but it’s there, I promise. That is my favorite color, one you cannot see anywhere else.

Photo by: Janet Bering Eno

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Photo by: Elizabeth Howard Photo by:Duke Gordon Li Location: Forest

Molly

Betty Jamerson Reed Welcome to the world, Molly!

While you eat and sleep and cry, I will plan future treks with you, my precious granddaughter, born while leaves are falling, making a dervish of whirling scarlets and yellows.

We will hike winding trails and wade up and down the creeks, listening to birdsong, marveling as the wind makes a harp of laurel thickets, mimicking the tune of the warbling brook, and freeze, unmoving, to watch a mother quail lead her young through the meadow.

In a future year after the raging wind brings chill and we hover near a glowing fireplace, basking in love‒ and spring arrives, I will teach you to create a garden, to till the soil, to drop seeds, to care tenderly for fragile plants.

I will teach you to make a garden in your mind, rich with images and ideas.

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Filled with wonder we will discover trailing arbutus, great white trillium, yellow lady slippers ‒ delighting that we did it together.

Oh, Molly, today sleep and eat and cry, while your grandmother makes plans for our tomorrows.

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Trish Morales Untitled Water color and ink

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FEATURED ARTIST: MADDIE PARIS

Maddie Paris is a sophomore (Duke University Class of 2022) double majoring in Biology and Environmental Science.

What kind of equipment do you use?

I have a Nikon D3500 with two lenses and then I also use my iPhone if I’m out and about.

Is there anything you want people to take away from viewing at your work?

When people look at my work, I’d like them to walk away with an appreciation for nature. I’d like for people to feel something; perhaps a sense of awe, a connection to the subject, or a feeling of tranquility.

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How did you first get excited about photography?

I’ve been interested in photography for a few years now, but I began pursuing it more eagerly over winter break. My family was lucky enough to take a trip to the Galapagos, and I found myself absolutely captivated by the native species. The animals in the Galapagos have no fear instincts because there are no large predators, so you can get quite close.

This made my first serious dabble in photography relatively successful and motivated me to pursue it more more actively. I really love being able to capture a moment in time and exhibit the beauty of nature. I also have a really bad memory so I like to look back through my photos and remember where I’ve been and what I saw.

Are there any particular challenges you face as a photographer?

When I first began attempting photography in high school, I felt embarrassed and didn’t share my work.

I knew I liked the feeling of taking wildlife photos, but I didn’t know how to pursue it or talk to other people about it. Now I feel much more confident; I have no formal training but I like what I do and I’m constantly trying to learn more.

Are there specific themes or styles you gravitate towards in your photography?

I really enjoy wildlife photography, especially close ups of animals. I like to show the intricacies and complexities of animals, as I think it forms a more personal connection to the subject and makes the animal seem more relatable or inspiring. I tend to look for moments when the subject makes direct eye contact with the camera. Birds are my favorite to photograph, as I find them endearing and almost bizarre.

How do you think that photography and art are connected to protecting the planet and conservation?

Photography and art share the environment with the human world. Art commands people’s attention and can draw their awareness to different places. Photography is supposed to amaze and inspire people. Through these mediums, we are sharing our experiences with the rest of the world. We can tell stories that motivate people to act and support conservation. Art makes you feel, and human action requires strong feelings.

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I am watching the Sun Set Julia Bingham

sitting on a driftwood sitka log so wide and round my feet dangle less than half way to sand patterned with feet

and paw and claw prints of every visitor between now and the last high tide right now it is just me and the Log and the murmuring wavelets licking before they pull back to ripple and

shiver like these last sun beams peeking through the trees on the headland that juts out between us and the Ocean

She is wearing a soft salmon shawl over the cool spring Pacific blue the pale sky has pulled away to let Her dance a bit more in the last daylight seconds until the night advances

Goodbye, we thank the sun and I sigh with the waves – time to walk back before the forest darkens

Photo by: Haley Jackson Location: Dewees Island, South Carolina 24

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Photo by: Maddie Paris Location: Galapagos Islands

Tide in, tide out, over under over under over; the Fear rolls in like thunder as I brace

Tidepools

Angela Hessenius when I am empty you may call me a crevice, hole, depression scratched from sandstone by saltwater nails. when I am filled, I become a puddle—salty, small, isolated, like a cacti tombstone in a valley of death

Yet, I am the shelter— the sessile creatures reside in me: resilient, safe, alive Anemone cling like anchored ships folding in their sails from gusts of whipping wind, Mussels attach like shingles on a roof, Sea stars stretch and secure their radial fingers— batten themselves like memories deep in my sulci, my skeleton.

The Waves persistent percussion pound on my shore the Sun sucks and shrivels the life-water out of me I succumb to the typhoon nights and drought days pushed and pulled and pulverized like fat, wet dough.

I brace myself, alone, a stranded soldier waiting in a basement listening to the rhythm of bombs

All of Us, and You, also, are made of Eternal Ocean, after all.

What scratched us into Being, What rakes us with its endless rising and retreating— What spills over from Me into You Eno

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Tao of Water Susan Schmidt

My kayak waits on the town racks at Gordon Street.

I paddle against the tide so I can float back. If tides are right, I can circumnavigate Carrot Island, seven miles, and paddle against tide only one mile. Current is strong in the center of the creek; lower near shore. Last week, three rare sandhill cranes were grazing in a marsh.

Tide in Taylors Creek flows 3 or 4 knots, so I can swim in place or stop kicking and float backwards. The creek is cleaner without menhaden gurry. But still, stormwater runoff from lawn chemicals, road petrol, mosquito poison.

Direct sewage outfalls. I can shower off sea salt and scum.

Tide flows in six hours, slack high; flows out six hours.

The creek keeps rising. The Tao says water is humble, goes downhill, can flow in any direction, unafraid of high or low. Nothing is stronger or weaker than water, yet nothing better at overcoming the hard and strong.

Before motorboats disturb it, the creek surface can be slick ca’m silk, reflecting sunlight or moonshine. I chide myself I should row at 5 am, but never do. When high wind opposes tide, whitecaps tumble down the creek.

The surface can flow backward with the wind but the tide still pulls the bottom layer out to sea. Water circles in eddies. The Tao says water goes wherever it wants.

With rising sea level and frequent King Tides, the creek flows onto Front Street, into stores, up to house steps, four times a year. Sometimes tide keeps rising, bubbles up like oatmeal boiling out of my stovetop pot.

Have I been striving against the tide my whole life?

Now weeding, hanging laundry, walking my dog instead of fighting polluters, I go with the flow.

The Tao says be as you are.

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Photo by: Sara Sayed Location: Nags Head Beach, North Carolina

Photo by: M.C. Murphy Location: Prince William Sound, Alaska

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Practicing Tonglen Susan Schmidt

In Buddhist meditation, you envision Breathing in Light and Breathing out Light.

Tonglen is a more sophisticated practice: Breathing in the hot smoke of others’ pain and Breathing out cool Light to the sufferer.

In Tibetan, Tonglen means ‘sending and receiving.’ I am grieving: the Amazon rainforest, source of oxygen, home to zillions of plants and critters, is burning.

In July, the hottest month ever recorded, 200 billion tons of ice melted in Greenland.

Seabirds are going extinct; in Iceland, puffins can’t feed their chicks sand eels, displaced by cold-water mackerel because the Arctic is melting.

On Mauna Loa in 1958, Keeling measured carbon in the atmosphere at 315 parts per million. Earth cannot recover if it rose above 350. Sixty years later, it’s 415.

“The Earth is Toast,” my very Zen mentor John Elder told my class twenty years ago. Last month John told our Orion workshop, “We have bought the ticket” for the end of the Earth as we know it. “We must grieve what we are losing but celebrate what we love.”

My mountain friends ask me again, “How much longer are you going to live at the coast?” Do I have twenty more years? I worry about sea level rise, hurricanes, blind leaders; fewer black skimmers at Bird Shoal, fewer swans and ducks at Mattamuskeet.

As bullies bulldoze, mine, drill, log habitats, I voice my own rage and fear instead of pushing them away.

In my grief, I kayak with shorebirds to refill joy.

I practice Tonglen to Breathe in Earth’s looming Darkness and Breathe out Life to diminishing butterflies, starving polar bears. Am I strong enough?

Breath in Darkness, Breath out Light.

Yvonne Lee “Bloom” Acrylic, tempera on canvas 28

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Yvonne Lee “Waterfall” Acrylic, tempera on canvas

Yvonne Lee “Spirited” Acrylic, tempera, fabric paint on canvas

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Photo by: Angela Hessenius Location: Siem Reap Province, Cambodia

30 Photo by: Maddie Paris

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Photo by: Julianna Schroeger Location: Chobe National Park, Botswana

Photo by: Tianqi Wu Location: Dafeng Nature Reserve Area, China

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Fulgurite

Kendall M. Jefferys Do you feel the Earth? deeply Do you feel the magnetic core of the Earth pulling the core of your being into the dune?

I do And do you see the tern that has fallen dead in the sand?

Do you feel how the world turns around you and around the sun?

It is all a matter of weight that sets each turn in motion -an angle of wind that sets free a paper kite above the sand.

Remember the weight of your being, the things it may turn.

Be thoughtful of what you draw close and release what you don’t need so that it may burn in the atmosphere as a star and new wishes may be made.

Kyle Cornish “Proof 1” Mixed media collage 32

Photo by: Emily Melvin Eno

Photo by: Haley Jackson Location: Falls Lake State Park, North Carolina

Photo by: Paul Noah Location: Asheville, North Carolina Eno

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Vertigo

Lianna Gomori-Ruben When I first arrived in Oklahoma, I was overtaken by a state of dizziness that never left.

“We used to be like Europe,” my Choctaw friend says. “Our different nations were separated by a rich diversity of language and culture. Now we’ve been condensed into one square of land and the symbol of a dreamcatcher. We no longer speak our own language.”

In Oklahoma, the earth is red and the soil is clay. It is a simmering place, noisy with birdsong yet quiet with the hush of ghosts.

The name Oklahoma comes from Okla humma, meaning “Red People” in the Choctaw language. “Red People” for the 39 Native American tribes that live, breathe, and die here. “Red People” for the tribes forced into exodus from their ancestral homes in the bitterest of uprootings.

Okla humma. Red people. Soil soaked with blood and tears. Mouths invaded by alien tongues.

On May 28, 1830, President Andrew Jackson signed the Indian Removal Act. He mandated the removal of Native American tribes from their homes. At military gunpoint, families with wise elders and newborn babies were forced to walk across thousands of miles to Oklahoma. By the time the Cherokee arrived from Georgia, they had lost a quarter of their people to starvation, disease, and exposure.

Even though I’m a newcomer to Oklahoma, I feel an instant connection to this land, its peoples, and its history.

I, too, am a descendent of a crude uprooting. I, too, carry a legacy of brokenheartedness within my bones.

The land remembers. The air remembers. Our cells remember.

The Act produced waves of human suffering that landed here in Oklahoma and sank down into its soil.

Deep, dark reverberations give me vertigo. The faint echo of a mourning mother’s howl tingles my ears.

The pain of the past vibrates up from the ground today and into the air, emissions of fossilized anguish.

Such violence cannot be erased.

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Photo by: Lianna Gomori-Ruben

Bill Chameides “Wildfire�

Digital art

I went for a hike and got caught in a summer thunderstorm.

Julia Bingham

how is it that such Catharsis can be drawn from sudden downpour, drenched, shivering, slogging through mud under clashing thunder, cold to the core but finally finally finally Released.

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Photo by: Pat French Location: Gold Creek Falls, Juneau, Alaska 36

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POETRY CONTEST WINNER

rainy season in my heart Chiara Klein

rainy season in my heart brings tangled, draping nets of greenery, succulent and saturated, bowing at the weight of their dripping tendrils, silent like the thick of a jungle canopy, waiting for the primordial buzz of the insect choir to build to a crescendo. rainy season in my heart makes rivulets down mountainsides, tosses drab-colored swallows about in lonely gusts of wind, drenches the hollow, sighing valley in endless curtains of rain, and in the yellowed evening, evaporates mist from broad, tired fronds. rainy season in my heart sends me into hiding, while moss grows thick on my veins, and the forest menagerie emerge slowly from their shelters to collect water from the swollen womb of the rainforest. rainy season in my heart and I am constantly swathed in mist, beads dripping from my temples, my nose, my eyelashes, the scent of fresh, wet earth trailing after me, damp leaves plastered to my wrists and wrapped in my hair, puddles in my eyes.

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Gleam

Anna Nissley A hike over early due to my allergies.

We rolled slowly in our Ford Fusion hybrid down a rutted gravel “road” called iron roof, bunny hill, or something like that.

Through the trees you could still just barely see a matte bedsheet of twilight blue stretched taut across the atmosphere pinks and yellows suggested toward the west.

My dad, loving Pennsylvania’s common birds, spotted a gleaming eye in the dark and slowed the car windows down to hear the bird’s song stones crunching under tires like first kernels of popcorn to burst.

Look there, he said, and we peered, leaning toward a laser-pointer-bright eye— how it got there we didn’t know.

It’s a whippoorwill. Listen.

Lilting and relentless until it flicked itself from leaves and flew.

We passed and heard it distantly like a warning or a haunting memory.

Another gleaming, and we slowed this time angling the car and our heads toward the creature bodies half out the window with breath held, eyes wide we recognized the gleam as light from our high beams reflecting off of an aluminum can of Coke.

Photo by: Paul Noah

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Photo by: Mike Campton Location: Bonn, Germany

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