The Silent Cove Returns by Kathryn Magendie

Last night the rain came. And as I woke throughout the night and listened, I heard it thrum against the roof. I smiled. For just days earlier, I yogged my plea to Father Sky, asking for rain. Of course, being the ungrateful person I can be, even in my gratitude I ask for more, for we do need more rain in Haywood County.

Yet, this morning as I walk my cove in Killian’s Knob, it is more as it has always been. The creek isn’t as sick and I hear its rush just a bit louder than it has been these past months. The birds and red squirrels are happy, too. And the bare and almost-bare branches of the trees are filled with thousands of rain drops shining from a sun who peeks in and out of the clouds. I say to Sun, “Not yet, for we need more rain.” And I say to the clouds, “Yes, you come. Come filled with rain and let it loose.”

I walk up a little ways and stand at a precipice, and there, I look out over the cove, the valley below, the ridges. My dog and I are still (and as we stand, I think sadly of my old girl and how she would stand nose to air, the wind brushing back her thick coat). The morning sounds are as they should be: Nature and no Man’s Sounds.

The wind pushes against the bones of the tree, and what few leaves are left from a brilliant-colored fall scatter across the sky and cove and to the ground. I walk across hundreds of leaves, some still retaining their color. At one part of the road walk, there is a large crowd of leaves that have landed stem side curled up, and it makes me laugh to see all those stems pointing up to the sky, grouped together like a gathering.

Jake and I stop directly behind our little log house and look down (and I wonder if Jake’s dog-brain thinks “that is my place, down there). I hear our chimes on the porch. I hear the wind through the trees. I hear the creek singing. I hear a bird calling to another bird and the answering call. I hear a squirrel chattering. I hear raindrops falling from the tree’s branches onto a hungry ground. I hear my breathing, soft. I hear Jake’s breathing, soft. All is as it should be in our cove. The sounds of Man have been muffled by nature: by the rains come to replenish the creek; by the wind through the trees; by the tourists going home; by the wishes of a woman who called out to Father Earth and Mother Sky and all the ancients who have come and gone, who like the woman does, love this cove, this area, love these mountains more than any Human could ever love a lover.

All Warm Inside by Nannette Croce

A few days ago in my area a predicted rain changed to unpredicted snow around late afternoon. The accumulation was only 1-3 inches, but with temperatures holding at freezing, it played havoc with rush hour traffic, or so the radio said. Watching the heavy wet flakes stack up on the driveway and street, my mind drifted back to times spent idling in traffic while the sky grew dark. Jumping out of my car every so often to remove caked snow from my wipers, the only consolation being that mine was not one of the cars that skidded into each other a mile up the road. I remembered the time the Fed Ex guy hooked a chain to his van and pulled me out of a ditch when the road out of the corporate center had become indistinguishable.Then there was the afternoon and evening spent chasing after an over-stimulated two-year-old waiting for her Dad, whose company had shut down at noon, to come home and play in the snow. It was 7:00PM before I saw his car struggling to make those last few feet to the driveway. And oh those many mornings listening to lists of school closing numbers while running the limited childcare options over in my mind.

I went downstairs and poked my head into my husband’s office, knowing he’d be too engrossed in work to check the weather.

“Feel like making a fire? It’s snowing.”

“Hey, yeah. Can you make us some coffee?”

We took our laptops into the family room, sipped coffee in front of a warm fire, and, from time to time, remembered other winter events in the days when we had no choice but to take to the road.

Mother Earth, Father Sky by Kathryn Magendie

Dark clouds hovered over the distant Smoky Mountains. I stood on the porch, unable to take my eyes from the site of mountain, thundercloud, mist. As night descended, so did the storm—a furious slamming of wind and water against the roof and windows. Bedtime brought a dreamy smile before sleep. Several times during the night, I awoke to hear pummeling rain and snuggled deeper into my comfort.

Morning arrives, the storm has passed and Sun is rising to hide Moon—only Grandmother Moon and Grandfather Sun can match Mountain in bold dignity. As I head to the coffee pot for a cup of Deep Creek Blend, something calls, a familiar sound I can’t quite place. I sip coffee and go to the window facing our porch, which looks to the ridge across the cove, and over to those distant mountains. I cock my head to listen.

When I open the front door, there it is. There is the sound I have missed over these months, the one that had been muffled. The wild wild rush of the creek as it falls over and upon itself, as it tumbles down to the bottom of the mountain to spill into the larger creek, which spills into the river, which spills into the ocean. With winter’s bony branches revealing, I can see the boiling white water, the clear pools. Creek sounds roar mighty. Creek is gorged with rainwater!

North Carolina, like some of our sister states, has been in a drought. I watched the news as Atlanta officials prayed for water. I think how Mother Earth will provide; Father Sky will provide, as they see fit, as they are able. I know sometimes our own actions cause change, and I know as well that Earth will change on her own. I did not pray for rain, I waited for it. The waiting did not disappoint. Father Sky gave the rain and Mother Earth fed her creek. Thank you Mother Earth and Father Sky. In this year of gratitude, I will watch; I will wait for your gifts. In return, I will protect; I will appreciate.