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.

Ode to a Deck by Barbara Quinn

This time of year I appreciate my deck. When we were figuring out how to site this house, one of the first things my husband did was find out the exposure. He studied the plans, and told the builder to place the deck on the east side of the house. We worked from there. We’d had decks that faced west and he wanted to avoid that setting sun hitting us. So now the front of the house gets the afternoon sun while the back, where our deck is, receives the shade. It’s wonderful to be able to sit out there and read, and at this time of year I look forward to having dinner on the deck. We barbecue. I pick some fresh herbs from my garden. And I light some candles to keep the biting bugs away. Then we relax, talk, drink wine with our meal, and let the evening settle over us. Because we are surrounded by tall pines and other trees we’re completely private. The quiet is a great escape from the hubbub of life. Off to the north there are lovely mountains. They’re not a dramatic soaring range of mountains. Rather they are gentle hills, worn by time. But they do have their charms. And to the rear, behind the deck, are woods that are a refuge for many critters.

We receive visits from many animals while we sit out on the deck. There are cotton-tailed bunnies, chipmunks, and woodchucks. The deer tend to stay away till we go inside, then they are back munching on whatever they can find. I’ve learned to forget about planting things like tulips which are fodder for the deer buffet. Occasionally a gorgeous red fox comes and sits on the hill. Wild turkeys parade through. I’ve seen a couple of possum at night. And overhead hawks soar while hummingbirds hover in the garden.

No matter how long or hard the day, I know at night I can go out on the deck and enjoy a mini-vacation.

Butterfly by Kathryn Magendie

Every year the butterflies come. The first time I saw them, I thought something was wrong, that somehow the butterflies were disoriented and ended up at the bottom of our gravel driveway. But then, the next year they were back, and the next, and next. From what I can tell, these could be Pipevine Swallowtails, a butterfly that frequents these mountains. Whatever kind they are is not important to me, the butterflies themselves are. Every late spring or early summer they rest at the bottom of my driveway. At times there are twenty or more of them, landing and then lying there, fluttering their wings. When I walk our dogs, they flit away, hovering near, and wait until we leave before they land once again in their designated spots. Some are already dead, wings spread. Whenever I have to drive out, I go slowly, giving them time to disperse, and they do, in a slow lazy dance, as if they really do not, most certainly do not, have time for this human’s antics.

I wonder why they are here. Is it a mating place? A meeting place? A dying place? I can’t help but imagine the butterflies has been coming to this one spot for hundreds, thousands?, of years, and the development has not stopped them. I am glad we have kept our spot as wild as possible. We haven’t landscaped, preferring not to have a "yard." Our property has plants and flowers that are unique, rare even, and we are careful to honor the ancient quality of this place. The first late spring here, when the butterflies came, I picked up a dead specimen. He was perfect, his body still, but the colors, the beauty of him made him still seem alive, as if I only had to touch him and he would lift his wings, flutter them, and then fly away from me. I carefully placed him in the palm of my hand, studied the color and craft of him. Then, I took him inside and placed him among my rocks, feathers, bark, bones, shells, and other mountain things I find. He stayed for a while, then as time passed, he could no longer sustain such beauty and began to fall apart. I took him then, because I understood I’d done something I should not, and I returned him to his place on the mountain. The wind picked him up and carried him away away away. I watched. I wondered. I said, “Thank you for allowing me to have you, just for a little while.” The butterflies come, every year, and I wait for them, gratitude for their beauty and constancy filling me. My Mountain is not really mine, yet it is.

Save me from the Touridiots by Kat Magendie

I’m not feeling very grateful right now. In fact, I’m feeling irritated and annoyed. With spring break near, it is time for visitors to our mountain. Some have already arrived, including the people above us, who have left their dog on their deck while they go touring. The dog hasn’t stopped yelping for almost two hours now; and who knows how long the tourists will be away, either oblivious, or uncaring, of what their visit has brought to our quiet little cove. I stomp about my little log house. I turn up the television (so that while I am writing this, Rachael Ray is also yapping excitedly right along with the dog). I try to tune it out, but doggie only becomes more frenzied, as no one is there to let it know it hasn’t been left for good.

“Touridiot,” I mutter. I’ve meanly named the people who visit our beautiful mountains and disrespect it, and us. The touridiots who decided to hold a screaming drunken party at two in the morning. The touridiots who threw their fast food empties along the road. The touridiots who left a bulging sack of garbage by the side of the road, too lazy to take it to the nearby garbage disposal site. The touridiots who shot firecrackers during a drought, and even onto our neighbor’s roof.

I grit my teeth. I grind out, “Tourists go home!”

I take a deep breath. I was once a tourist to Western North Carolina. A good tourist, a reverential one, a respectful one. Good tourists do exist: The phantom bagpipe player whose mournful sound filters through the mountain mists and calls to that part of me who is Scottish. The young men who played their acoustic guitars while singing with lilting voices. The family with children, who I heard laughing and playing while building a little fort by the creek; what nostalgia to remember my fort-building days. The older couple who waved to us, the happiness evident on their faces; joy and reverence. I feel calmer. Funny thing, just as I wrote those positive things, the dog has stopped—this isn’t a metaphor or analogy or “moral ending,” the dog really has stopped right at the moment I wrote: I feel calmer. I decide to be grateful while it lasts. The family will return. The dog will calm. All will be as it was, or how it will be when it isn't; either way, I live in paradise. Yes, I do. Ahhhh.

Come Rock With Me, by Kathryn Magendie

We are sitting together on my porch, you and I. A fat wind pushes against us, our hair tickles across our brows. We appreciate. Sun is out, and Old Moon is waiting. The bright birth of day easily changes to the deep illumination of the night. For Moon shines mystery even at daylight. We rock, pushing off with our right foot. To the left, a cardinal eats from the feeder. To the right, the little red squirrel chatters. We talk about our dreams, those of sleep, and those of our lives. We talk of regret, and old loves and old lives and wants and we talk of loves lost and lost loves. The air is easy between us, our hearts beat, and it is the rhythm of life.

Close your eyes, still your mind, take in a deep breath, and be. You can hear my breath sounds. We are connected by the earth. Listen to the creek sing. Feel the burst of wind. Smell the rich earth, the dark soil. To the ground we will return; we will feed and then be fed upon, symbiotic nourishing. Open your eyes. You can see my brown eyes deep and dark and as mysterious as the moon. I ask, Are you happy? Are you well? You say, Better than those, I am grateful.

The tree's boned branches sway. And there, beyond, mountain, forest, sky. The rock ancient and solid waits for our feet to stand upon it, where the ancestors stood, see what they saw, feel the wind they felt, enjoy the warmth of the sun as they did, cry and love and laugh waiting for Old Moon, just as they did. We rock; you and I, and we forget the things that once made us cry. We rock, and we forget the trails upon trails upon roads upon roads that we have walked with our head down, looking at our feet. Today, we look up. Today we see all. And every tear that we've ever shed runs into an ocean, and that ocean ebbs and flows and it is beautiful, for our pain has its own beauty, even if we can't always see this. We rock; there is nothing to take away and nothing else to give; there is nothing else but us and the wind and the mountains and the coming Old Moon.

A Coat of Many Colors by Barbara Quinn

The sunset is glorious tonight. Pale pinks and blues, hints of purple and gray are stretching across the horizon. Below this Easter-egg colored sky sits the dark rim of the Ramapo Mountains which I see from my office window. I’m not at the shore but in my home in a small town in Rockland, NY called Montebello. Now that it’s winter, the mountains are visible and it’s postcard perfect outside. The wintry silhouettes of the trees reach toward the colors overhead.

I’m an evening and night person. I haven’t seen too many sunrises in my life, but I’ve made an effort to appreciate sunsets when I can. Most days I’m too busy to look up at the sky. Yesterday, I stopped in the Foodtown parking lot and took in the gorgeous colors. I must have looked odd standing there on the asphalt with busy shoppers and carts rushing by. Cars pulled into and out of spaces. Everyone else had heads tucked down against the gathering cold and dark. I stood by my car and watched the sky change colors. I didn’t stay for more than a couple of minutes. Then I went into the market and shopped. The sunset stayed with me for quite some time.

Tonight’s is just as pretty. The colors keep changing, melting into one another and blending in new ways that are splendid. I’d like to have a sunset coat to wrap around myself. Joseph’s coat of many colors would have nothing on mine. Till then I’ll be grateful for the hues that appear without fail each evening, wrapping up my day in their vibrant and dependable tones. What a gift they are.