The Nighthawk Review, 2003

The

Nighthawk Review

The literary magazine of the College of Eastern Utah

1~ VJ.

Table of Contents

Poems

History in Grass

Sam Cook.

Japan 1932................... William A. Lanier Jr

Philippines 2002 William A. Lanier Jr

To My Daughter

Dad and Apple Pie

Oma's First Guacamole

Little Brother

Megan Thomas

Megan Thomas

William A. Lanier Jr

Taylor Robison

My Grandbabies Kelli Stephens

A Mother's Neglect

Taylor Robison

My Moab Home Bonnie Wiggins

Bottles in a Line

Valentine's Day

The Mantel of Leadership

Food, Folks and Fun

Calloused Royalty

Bonnie Wiggins

Megan Thomas

Riley Murdock

Chris Myers

Josalyn Moore

Life Daren Larsen

Staged

Love's Inverted Echo

Coal Train

Where Early Morning Lies

Rich Indulgence

Nicholas Dunn

Ben Bailey

Samuel Bailey

Ben Bailey

Riley Murdock

Bi Yu Terence Larson

Libido

Tim North

Home Randee Schultz

The Bronc

Knowing a Friend

Universal Ties

Essays

On the Inside

Where the Heart is

No Cow is an Island

Kyle Butts

Bonnie Wiggins

Bonnie Wiggins

Josh White

Taylor Robison

Shannon Dunmyer

History in Grass

I found a book lying in the grass down on a farm by the old house my great-grandfather built. Searching through the pages I wondered, did he ever think that I would be reading the same book?

It is an old high school history text book held together by chance and threads. It ends on Teddy Roosevelt. This book knows nothing of World War I; It knows nothing of World War II or hippies or Watergate.

And when I see how much history has passed between my grandfather's time and my own, I realize how little we know of our futures. What we do from day to day and from year to year proves my theory: History needs to be learned and lived by, not just written in old books, found in the grass, held together by chance and threads.

Sam Cook

Japan 1932

blue cotton kimono girl hair creased by wind your warm dark eyes look down at your feet pretending not to see the man who calls you his skoshi kabuku watching you bring his rice and sake later he will call you to his bed and tear your origami heart

Philippines 2002

she sits watching soaps in her crate, says T.V is an escape, a way to deal, to let go of life. Her children dance to Sesame Street her husband weeps in desperation they will never build sandcastles to the sky or taste clean water; instead they drink coke and dream of living a T.V life instead of just watching

William A. Lanier Jr.

To My Daughter

My fifth baby, now with the right to vote. A brown-whisped bundle, ruddy in a onesie, you knew.

Your small hand grasping my pinkie, the bond connecting us was more than inherited.

Timid, like me, shaky in a crowd. Same black-lashed eyes, glimmering in temper, steady in honesty.

We are both shoulders, bases of patience. Mine leaves barren, as I watch yours waste in a dead sprint.

Tears, prayers, wrap my mouth in nagging worry. Well-meant words weigh your receding back.

My hope for you was never twisted with expectations, held in my arms, I thought you knew.

Megan Thomas

Dad and Apple Pie

I move down the blue-lit hall, summoned by the shuffling steps and orange light. Above the marble-plates counter you stand with your faded "Dad" apron, effaced with markings of kinetic children, and mussed hair.

Father and daughter, two sleepwalkers among dough, kneading out angry phrases in silky elasticity. We have the secret: Everything fixed by a fresh apple pie. My first, during that ten year winter. YOU instructed, as he lay barely conscious, waiting his passage from pain.

We measured and mixed glossy, stemmed fruit. Coring our grief and seeded denial, peeling off mortal understanding sliced into half-moon hope. A brown-flecked mound sealed by a pastry lid

Megan Thomas

Oma's First Guacamole

It took me two months to get you to eat Mexican food your German palate too sensitive you said waiting patiently I ate potato after potato after potato in salad boiled fried stuffed with bacon and cheese then one day you conceded I brought home two avocados mixed them with spices your German cookbook never mentioned and then we sat together and ate guacamole

William A. Lanier Jr.

Little Brother

There he issprawled out on that heroic Steelers blanket. I come to greet him after school, peeking through that barrier he calls a door. I see those feet hanging off the edge of his six feet, four inch frameESPN or Family Feud blares out past his postered walls. Those fingers clamped in position in fear of losing his remote his mouth curved as he pops his jaw, allowing others to know it's snack time yet again for the third time that hour.

Taylor Robison

My Grandbabies

Shh can you hear it?

It's the rain

Shh-listen

Outside on the deck

Under the porch

Listen, It's beautiful See the clouds?

This is peace

This is what it is all about Sitting on the porch

Holding my grandbabies

Listening to the rain

Kelli Stephens

A Mother's Neglect

She enters the kitchen where the backpack is thrown, cookies still left on the plate; she walks past

The sun's last rays peak through the heavy curtain; she thinks about closing them, but she walks past.

Three more doors and she won't see it, down the hall, and then one. She keeps walking past.

He's with their little girl- buckling his belt. Stiff tears fall from her eyes, and she walks past.

Taylor Robison

MyMoabHome

Bamboo wind chimes beat the air, like dead bones running stationary marathons.

Unmu.flled cars shake windows ofhouses, as their pipes spray deadly gas fumes.

Children yell as they play in the street, their eager voices fill dead air with sound

White clouds drift shyly above me, as the sun beams down death at the raindrops.

The flowers have browned in my front yard, dead leaves lay like twisted brown Armageddon metal.

Under the ground a small seed waits, to fill dead space with boisterous color.

Bonnie Wiggins

Bottles in a Line

As I drove up the road I noticed that someone had placed bottles in a line along the asphalt edge.

Alcohol bottles of every kind, clear, brown and green some still containing small amounts of liquid.

All along the road one bottle, one bottle twelve or more, like gossips standing still, watching.

I drove in silence, wondering who had spent the time to place these bottles in lines along this small stretch of road.

On over the hill as I drove slowly on I saw an old man, limping as he walked.

In his hand he held a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, amber in the noon sun.

I slowed, his face in a frown. He looked at my car and me, as if I were the one to blame.

I stopped, and he looked at the bottle in his hand. ''My daughter" he said, ''has a drinking problem."

Bonnie Wiggins

Valentine's Day

Love,cliche in all of its consumer gorgeousness, baby-faced cupid pricking the hearts of romance-sold damsels, awaiting their horse drawn carriage to dispatch them from their distress of mundane responsibilities,

to an idealized prince who will worship them in their acquired girth of weekend ice cream digs and laments of loneliness.

Laughing at the absurdity of it all, I contentedly slmp my Baskin Robbins thirty-first flavor. I refused the prince, but I am still alone.

Megan Thomas

The Mantle of Leadership

Loyalty and responsibility

I strap it on to lead and to protect on my chest and over my shoulders

I strap it on it's liberty, my choice, my voice on my chest and over my shoulders it's the strength ofmy word being measured

It's liberty, my choice, my voice, heavy gravity pulls it from me it's the strength of my word being measured accountability for everything, for everyone

Heavy gravity pulls it from me power to serve, to make a difference accountability for everything, for everyone loyalty and responsibility

Riley Murdock

Food, Folks and Fun

Easter from your heart; You pull it out of your pocket and Place it in their grandchildren hands for them to chew. Pink orange or black You lure them in with these sugar eggs.

But I am not a fish Cold and Stinky

You cannot pull me in if I do not take the bait. Its draw doesn't last too long, So use it well. But don't forget to supplement With a main course fortified With vitamins and minerals, For then they come back Even without them.

Chris Myers

Calloused Royalty

Old worn-out levis tight as snake skin dusty from herding cattle across the range.

Leather boots worked to the souls exposing threadbare socks.

Long-sleeve patchwork button-up shirt soaked in sweat and caked in mud.

My strong loyal horse is my throne. Draped in a red rug hand sewn by my precious Queen.

My ten gallon crown on my head. My cattle as my army. My kingdom shall never fall.

Josalyn Moore

Life

Colors splashing everywhere all over my clean white sheet of paper Reds, Oranges and Yellows, fall Too bright for my newly opened eyes Blacks, Grays and Forest Greens Float gloomily in the Air

At first the brights were so exciting and the darks so calm and fun Now they only bring Fear, Tension, and Bitterness

Faster and faster they keep coming Each splash is like another slap in the face Stinging, Burning They keep falling

I try to shake them off But they stick sinking deeper into my Pure white sheet of paper Daren Larsen

Staged

We struggle to communicate now. The audition was so promising, and the performance, In its early stages, brilliant.

The unbridled passion between us Would have made Shakespeare seem doggerel.

Then a beat change.

It all seems so staged now.

Dialogue seems so forced

We suppress impulses, avoid eye contact, Fail to listen and react.

The conflict and tension between us now would have turned Arthur Miller's head Might even have sent Ibsen Back to the drawing board

Amazing accomplishments, and indeed something To be proud of, If this were meant to be A tragedy.

Nicholas Dunn

Love's Inverted Echo

Your hollow stare fills me

Your cold touch warms me

Your ugliness arouses me

Your shallow mind engulfs me

Then is it love?

And if ...

My appetite made you void

My fire consumed your guilt

My intrigue made you surly My inundation washed you dry

Then is it hate?

Ben Bailey

Coal Train

She's gone

She moved three months ago. I was left in the South Salt brine. Expectance haunts. I like it though, So dnmk on hope's sweet wine.

She's gone

Six months today. I've moved to a coal train town. I hear her whistle twice a day. What a long and lonely sound.

North she flew to the rain green sea. I devoutly give a tithe to a raven goddess lost to me, whose black eyes swallowed mine.

Inebriated in a soul drenched dearth

I rise and slur ... decline plant one more seed in the soft dry earth drink one more tub of wine.

Samuel Bailey

Where Early Morning Lies

your early morning makeup when you wear none at all your lily eyelids swell like the skylark's throat when you wear none at all is when dandelions bloom like the skylark's throat crooning rousing lullabies

when dandelions bloom you accentuate the lawn crooning rousing lullabies that shiver in tufted hair you accentuate the lawn in rings of rose you hold shivers in tufted hair with fingers swollen close in rings of rose you hold each bead of pillow salt with fingers swollen close to reel inside my sleep

from each bead of pillow salt your lily eyelids swell in reels inside my sleep where you wear none at all

Ben Bailey

Rich Indulgence

Small squirrel hands clutched around a purple mug an oriental bowl, a liter in depth

The purple is for royalty.

Steam wafts from the hot syrup smelling French vanilla. Elegance, Charm, Richness, and Chocolate are blended together in a newfound elixir. My sister; eyes sparkling like broken glass Her fiendish grin, a psychopath eyeing one more Potential victim Swelling, rippling with life, the dark colors of Gaia churning endlessly into itself. She gurgles, sputters, and swallows. There is no moderate or modest sipping.

Wolves having caught their prey Rarely bother to chew ... but gorge!

Wiping froth from her face She smiles and asks for more

Riley Murdock

Bi Yu

Life is like a simile, a ''metaphor" for life. Love is a parable, a terrible retort.

Terence Larson

My Libido

My drive for such things Seems to have fled I await its return And equally dread Tim.North

Home

There lam sitting on my swing. Before me I see the backyard

It is HUGE to my six-year-old mind

I see that she's made ofrough, weathered wood poised to splinter at my touch. I rub my finger as I remember the splinter Mom removed yesterday.

In the center of the yard is the fire pit, the cement walls are cracking and crumbling showing the conglomerate interior. Remnants oflast week's cookout still linger in the ashesthe foil that steamed the com on the cob looks like molten rocks, the cobs like an old woman's mouth, empty of teeth.

The fence is covered with a vine having small, white flowers in the spring, deep purple berries in summer, and deep crimson leaves in the Fall.

I remember this scene as ifl had visited yesterday afternoon for my doll's tea party. I haven't been there in forty-five years. I wonder how it has changed

Randee Schultz

The Bronc

The little bronc stood wide eyed snortin' on the far side of the pen and boy did that colt break and bolt the minute I walked in.

He run around, his head held high, tail flaggin' 'bout half mast but my loop sailed true through the air and 'round his neck pulled fast.

He reared and pawed and snorted 'round and raised a lot of dust so I lunged him 'round and made him flee till finally I had trust.

He wasn't happy in the least with what was fast approachin' and to get my saddle screwed down tight it took a bit of coaching.

Well, up to now I was pleased for I'd had pretty good luck. That was until I turned 'em loose and Lord could that horse buck!

So I thought I'd slow 'im down a bit 'cause I hate to hit the ground. Specially since the cowboy crew had all started gatherin' 'round.

The time had come to climb aboard and fork this bronc, I knew. So I pulled my hat round down my ears and grabbed me one last chew.

I got him stopped and led him slow right out in the middle the tension was higher tween the two of us than the strings of a Southdown fiddle.

So I checked my girt, looped my reins and filled my fist with hair. then I climbed on top and next thing I knew, we're ten feet in the air!

As we were makin' descent to earth I felt my chest expanclin'. Well, I didn't mind the jump so much, the tough part was the landing.

As if it wasn't bad enough that all my bones were jarred, that pony went back up once more and sun.fishedback real hard.

Well, this jump wasn't so graceful, he had me in a bind, and thoughts of blood and broken bones were filling up my mind.

The cayuse now was buckin' left, my butt was shi:ftin' right. I tried to tum his head a bit, but it was not in sight.

My luck then got a little better and I thought I's got 'im rode But little did I know that pony knew he had me throwed.

Well, he began to shut her down and loosen up he understood. And I was as proud as a yearling bull 'cause I thought my ride was good.

Yeah, I was feelin' pretty tall after survivin' that attack. That is until he broke again and I landed on my back.

The next thing I remember was a deep voice overhead. And I was glad to hear it 'cause I knew I wasn't dead.

Then through the dust I saw his face like nature's evil forces. And Grandpa said, "Boy get on up and quit spoiling my damn horses!"

Kyle Butts

Knowing a Friend

We have been friends for so long that the earth has crusted over and is renewing with our children.

So long that our voices were the first to be heard by God and our songs belted out the first angel chorus

It has been an eternity since we sealed our lives in the friendship that never asks why or when or how.

For us the world has rotated on an axis made of sons and daughters, yet we have survived crises and pain and celebrate it all with joy.

Together, dear friend, we have burned civilizations to the ground and rebuilt them on soil strengthened by the bonds that hold us together.

Bonnie Wiggins

Universal Ties

Hydrogen, heliwn, Compressed, Bang! Empty space

Filled time, Red hot, Blue cold, Swirling matter, Time begins, Universe grows, Whirling dervish, Star paths, Millcyways

Fill voids Create new Black holes, Molecules blend, Bending worlds, Sweat pours, Breath exhaled, Inhaled, essence, One cell, Divided, two, Womb expands, Mass increased, White light, New world, Muffled universe, Sounds echo, Child created Looks at Stars above, God has Great plans.

Bonnie Wiggins

On the Inside

Stuck in an immense, crowded arena, I run from end to end fearing for my life. It seems as though I can never escape this persecution: the constant taunting and threats thrown out by the fuming crowd. They want my blood, and some, my life. I actively watch as muscular men fight and brawl with all of their might. I find their strength amazing and ability superb. Amidst the fighting, I still receive blow after blow of abuse. The tension builds and builds without letting up. What have I done to offend these people? Will it ever stop? How can I make it stop...?

Sound familiar? Is it perhaps an excerpt from an ancient Roman gladiatorial contest? Maybe ... but it also parallels the life of a modem sports official: a Referee.

The gym is full, and the fans are on their feet. Sweat drips from the chins of the players and the coaches wave their arms, yelling out instruction with so much force that veins protrude from their necks and foreheads. Two minutes remain in the fourth quarter. A player from the Blue team has just committed a foul. I watch as my partner walks to the table to report the foul, "Blue, twenty-three; on the arm. We'll shoot two." After reporting, he crosses to the other side of the court. Number twenty-three hands me the ball and takes his spot on the low block.

Before each free throw, I check the line up and signal both to my partner and the players saying, "Two shots, we have two shots, rest fellas," I bounce the ball to the shooter who dribbles it according to his unique style. I take my position under the basket.

The player/official relationship is one of extreme delicacy. I purposely place myself next to number twenty-three; he and I both know it. His towering six-foot-eight body dwarfs my small five-foot-seven fame. Without looking at him, I question the validity of the last call, ''Did you get him?"

Never taking his eyes off the floor, he responds with, "I thought I had all ball."

No offense is taken at this statement. We both understand and acknowledge, as player and official, that we make mistakes. In this short conversation, I infer that I will do what I can to help him out, staying, of course, within the rules of the game. Sometimes players insist on complaining and yelling at the officials. They fail to understand "how it works." As officials, for the most part, we are approachable. We do not respond well to yelling but we will talk. Most who yell do not understand

that they will not get the benefit of the doubt. Those who talk, will. Officials are more generous to those who are civil and honest.

The first free throw is good I wait for a player to retrieve the ball for me; officials do not chase the ball. On the second shot, I remind all players that it must hit the rim before they can move. This time I step back away from the basket to gain a better angle on the players. The second shot is good also.

Once again, Blue brings the ball down the floor. They swing the ball high, then low. Blue continues to pass the ball. They look for a hole in White's defense. With another quick pass, Blue puts up a three-point shot. White grabs the rebound and hurries the ball past half court. The speedy guard races past defenders and drives into the paint. Blue twenty-three steps in front of the basket, legs shoulder width and both hands straight up in the air. He takes the oncoming guard right in the chest, collapsing to the floor. I blow hard on my whistle and point the other way-an offensive charge. The home team crowd hurls, boos and hisses. It is a tough call. What they don't know is I gave the call to twenty-three because he earned it. He is one of the few players who understands ''how it works." He held his tongue on a call against him and responded to me in a civilized way- something that is becoming a lost art.

My partner instructs the Blue player inbounding the ball that he must tuck his shirt in. We inform coaches and team captains before the game that we will conduct a professional contest and that we will require all players to keep their shirts tucked in. Both my partner and I have gone to great lengths to look professional. Our pants are newly pressed and have no belt loops, we wear compression pants or shorts to keep our shirts from untucking, and our shoes are newly brushed and polished

As the game continues, both teams thrash about running the floor and scoring points. There is a difficult balance between letting the kids play and allowing them to beat each other up. Every call, a foul here and a jump ball there, stimulates reactions from both sides.

A White player dribbles down the floor and passes cross-court to a teammate who jumps for the ball. Both he and an opposing player collide in midair. I blow my whistle and call a foul on the Blue player. In my view, the Blue player ran into his opponent. The visiting team's crowd does not see it the same way. They quickly let me know their perspective. After reporting the foul, I have a quick moment to reflect upon what just happened I run the situation over in my head and decide that I made the right call. Upon reaching this decision, I tune out the crowd and again focus on the game.

The fanatics continue to yell and spar. One of the best things about being an official is that it provides a working environment that yields immediate feedback.

I know of no other profession that allows a person to immediately evaluate his progress. John Keats said it best, "Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works." No official is perfect. They readily admit so. Each game is a challenge to improve. Officials strive every game to work better angles, or call the first foul. Each jeer from the crowd, every word from a coach, and all outbursts from the players allow an official to reflect on whether or not it was the right call. However, after this determination, good officials quickly disregard all remarks. (Granted, some are kept for use in amusing stories). Officials do not take the game home with them; they do not let the taunting unsettle them. If they do, they will not officiate very long.

As the clock ticks the final thirty seconds, I signal to my partner by holding one finger straight up in the air that we need to beware of the clock for the last shot. He returns the signal, something that we discussed in our pre-game conference. Before the game, we reviewed everything from positions on the floor to administering technical fouls. Each pre-game involves the same information. A good pre-game is essential because both officials need to know that they are on the same page.

With fifteen seconds left, White calls time out. Both teams break their huddles and we inbound the ball at mid court. The game has come down to one shot. White inbounds the ball and with a last second skirmish, puts up a three pointer. The buzzer rings when the ball is in mid flight ...

Both teams walk to their huddles. My partner and I jog to the locker room. We do not care who won. We barely even talk about it. This game's calls, as all others, were just the result of former personal critiques of our own works. On the way home, I review my performance and determine what I need to work on for the next game.

Josh White

Where the Heart Is

I hear humming as I lug my backpack through the brown shag carpet entryway of our family room. Throwing the cluttered bag at my feet, I always hear her say, even before she speaks, "Take it to your room!" She is upstairs, but I still hear her mutter ever so silently, "Why don't they ever listen to me ... I always tell them, leave their packs in their own room." I laugh to myself and head to my bedroom carrying my bag and worn leather shoes. As I enter my room, I see that she has fixed my pillows. No matter if I put them on myself the way I like them, they're always different after school. Sometimes I tell her, and other times I leave it alone.

Dodging a step or two on my way upstairs, I suddenly smell the clean fragrance of furniture polish. I see her leaning over something in the living room wearing holey sweat pants and an old shirt. She is grinding away on some old table that she found during a yearly garage sale trip. Her face is tenderly oval with strawberry blonde hair darting out by her ears. I am sure she tried her best to keep it in a ponytail, but with all the feverish attempt to dust the house, tendrils just whispered down the back of her neck. She doesn't realize I am standing there for a while, but when she finally turns her head in my direction, she simply smiles. She tells me to eat something small, for dinner is already in the works. I start to complain. I tell her that I am so hungry, haven't eaten a thing since lunch, even though it has been only four hours. In any case, I place popcorn in the microwave and go to wash up in the bathroom.

I cannot help but peek in my brother's room to see what he is up to, although I just really want to hear what he did at school today. His slender body is sprawled out on his Steelers blanket and there is the remote. It is always placed in his left hand like a safety device. God forbid the cable goes out. "Get out, I'm watching Family Feud!" he yells. Well, the idea of saying hello is erased. Instead, I find my way to the bathroom and wash my hands. As I'm drying off, a buzz sounds to deliver the message of my popcorn being ready.

After my snack, I head down the stairs to start my homework when my brother shoves past me and tells me not to go near the computer. There he goes, running to the office and dialing up. He thinks the Internet is the best entertainment source next to the television. I continue into my bedroom and I notice that my headphones are missing. They are stolen, and my brother is the culprit. I start yelling for my mom, and every time she tells him to hand them over. He does, but they are taken again. I have found it useless.

I grab my Women's Literature anthology and tread toward my parents' bedroom because the long novel ahead of me needs my full concentration. The room is private and it evokes warm comfort with the mounds of pillows supporting my back. Privacy is not long remembered, though, when dinnertime comes around. My father arrives home from work and finds me in his room.

''Hey girl, what's going on?" he banters with a wry grin. Then he informs me it's time to eat and reminds me to fill the water glasses.

After all cramming into the bathroom to wash up, we rush into the kitchen where we stand in a circle, hold hands, and pray. I give thanks and pray in my special way out loud. It is ftmny, after the quiet time, everyone is shouting and rushing to have their plate filled. My mother holds the position of serving us, and afterward, we scatter and all sit somewhere different to devour the homecooked meal.

Bringing my tray upstairs after dinner, I see him. He has a stem look on his face, as CNN is briefing in the background. Water droplets splash him in the face while he is scraping plates and an old dishtowel is tossed over his shoulder. I take my vitamins while glancing at the crowded countertops. There are his accessories he feels compelled every single night to leave on the counter: wallet, glasses, comb, and pocket watch. We exchange few words; he turns his head towards the view of the television. I start to leave the dimly lit kitchen, but I shift my body and stare at the sight. His lips curve into a slight smile and his hand makes a fist, which is positioned under his chin. His posture is stooped, even though I inform him several times how bad that is for his lower back and shoulders.

Night reveals itself through the shadows seen on the white carpet and floral wallpaper. I shut the min-blinds and depart to my bedroom to turn down my bed. I check off my list of homework assignments on my white board, and return to the family room to learn of my mother's happenings. Rocking in the wedge wood blue, ten-year-old chair, my mother is laughing to the Golden Girls. We start our "girls' night" by my mother massaging my shoulders, and then later I brush her hair. In between we eat chocolate chip cookies. The clock strikes eleven and my mother flees to the darkness of her bedroom, while I sit there and flip through music videos. My legs are stretched out so tiredly on our tan recliner and I begin drifting in and out of consciousness. After double locking every entry into our home, I climb the stairs and see the fridge light has been left on for me. This is the final note that everyone has gone to bed, but I am still not forgotten.

I gently edge the plywood door open and breathe in the stale air of my brother's room. Sleep has engulfed him. Having brushed my teeth, saying goodnight to my mom comes so easily. Every night, no matter how late the hour, she lays there untouched, waiting for me. As I pass to her side, there is my father, in a fetal position on the edge of the mattress. Giving a quick kiss to my mother, I leave the door open, and tip toe down the split-level house to my awaiting heaven. A smile and thought of these diverse, strange, and yet so valuable individuals are what lulls me to my deepest slumber.

Taylor Robison

No Cow is an Island

My earliest experiences with Nine Mile Canyon came in the late 1980's when I was about sixteen. I volunteered to help with an archaeological survey of the canyon and found myself camping with new and old friends in the ghost town of Harper in about the middle of the canyon. We had a wonderful time, climbing mountains all day, and sitting around our campfire every night eating food made more delicious with the passing of the years, and discussing philosophy, politics, and physics, always intoxicated by the joy of companionship, the thrill of adventure and just a little bit of the dried buds and leaves of the Cannabis Sativa plant.

My fondest memory of Nine Mile is of sitting in the second story window of the old Harper hotel (now, tragically, burned to the foundation) listening to Schubert's unfinished symphony, and watching horses run down the canyon as the setting sun filtered through the trees ablaze with autumn's colors. I consider my days and nights in the canyon that summer and fall to be the last great chapter of my childhood.

I brought my family here today to share some of my memories, to teach them a little about life, to show them. I also came to be inspired to write an essay of insight, wisdom, and just the right amount of BS to warrant an A. We've stopped to enjoy a lunch together at the Cottonwood Glen Picnic Area, which was converted from an old homestead sometime in the intervening years since last I was here. As my children play, I move off alone to find some quiet place to begin observing.

Nme Mile Canyon is a fairly remote canyon in Eastern Utah. There is history here and pre-history. This was once a main route through this section of the state. There were farms and ranches, dedicated pioneer families. Harper was a stagecoach stop, complete with hotel, post office, and school where these same pioneer families struggled to keep their school district alive. Hundreds of years before anyone of European descent lived in the canyon, the Utes, and before them the Fremonts, called this lonely lovely crack in the earth home, and brought their own families up loving, longing, and learning. And possibly as far back as 9,000 BC there were ancient families of the Desert Archaic culture living in rock shelters and caves throughout the canyon. There are only a handful of permanent residents who walk on two feet here now; the only culture left is the culture of nature. And make no mistakes my friends, there are families raised here yet today.

I won't go so far as to say that a sense of family is essential for a species more than a few cells in size to more than merely survive, but thrive. I may believe that, but there simply isn't enough evidence in my observations to make that claim. I will say that even a stupid cow can understand the importance of family. I see it in the way they look after their children, in the ways they stay

together while foraging, in the way they keep to themselves, and in the way they seem to truly love each other.

I wanted to write about a family of eagles, or beavers, or even porcupines, but these damn cows keep getting in the way. There are four of them, a black cow and her calf, and a brown cow and her calf. They're just dumb old cows with ugly, boring, "GF" brands clumsily burned into their sides. The brown cow pours about a gallon of pee on the ground as I watch amazed, and then goes right on foraging. Yummy.

Now Maria, as I have decided to address this brown cow, helps me prove my point by defending a calf against a perceived threat. In the distance, my children yell as they chase each other, and Maria rushes to the side of Charlie (the black calf) to shield him from whatever it was that made the sound. This could be easily dismissed as instinct, of course, until you are made to realize that Charlie is not Maria's calf. Charlie belongs to Gladys (the black cow) who had already moved into a defensive posture next to Maria's child Ginger (the very young brown calf). These two mothers stood guard over one another's children as though they were their own.

Maria is a well-fed lady. She has a coat of very fashionable earth tones, mostly the deep brown of the scrub brush she forages in. Her face is broad and immaculately powdered, and her kind but stem eyes watch everything with a unique dismissive caution. Her breasts are still heavy with milk, and they ever so gently graze the sagebrush as she walks slowly from grass patch to grass patch. Gladys is another kindly mother, with a thick black coat and long white trousers. Curly locks of ebony hair flow down her strong neck and onto her shoulders. There is a distant look in her large eyes as she ponders the carven patina of a nearby cliff face. Charlie is Gladys' adolescent son. He wears a black leather coat, with a cap of white fur low in his forehead. He seems to view everyone with suspicion and disdain, and for a long while won't even take time to eat while I am near. This brings us to Ginger. Ginger is a sweet and incredibly inquisitive child who has not quite completely made the transition from breast milk to grass, and likewise, has not quite made the transition from wildlife to domesticity. She runs and plays, chasing bees and her own tail. Ginger, unlike Charlie, isn't old enough to look quite like a proper cow. She is thin and energetic, yet these two things are not typically associated with a proper cow.

Suddenly Ginger loses her almost baritone voice into the still canyon air, and is amazed at the answer which comes echoing off the canyon walls. She continues yelling and listening for nearly fifteen minutes before she remembers I am here, leaning against the wall of an old cabin. She eyes me curiously and returns to her delicious grass.

These four stay always together when foraging, moving in a large circle through this homestead. They begin at the road, where the old pasture fence still lingers. They methodically move together, fanning out, until they are line abreast with the mothers on the ends. After a quarter of an hour they reach the

old corral near the creek. Its once closed gates yawn open, and this strange family closes ranks to enter as they have probably done ten times already today.

Maria and Gladys rarely lift their faces from the ground as they munch their way along. They breathe short and loud through their noses, stopping occasionally to catch a deep breath when these shallow sips of air are not enough. Next, they move through the other side of the corral and into what was once a cabin. All that remains here is a stone chimney, a subterranean storage room of some kind, and very thick green grass, which Ginger seems to enjoy very much. With this, they reach the road again, and they begin their odyssey anew. I watch them through two circuits of the course, betting that Ginger's youth will bring her around first and into a victory lap that will take nearly an hour.

If they were merely herding, I imagine they would stay with the larger group of cattle half a mile or so down the canyon, but they deliberately keep to themselves. This reminds me of my own family. I've gone days, blissfully wishing the company of none other than my wife, my children, and myself.

I finally tire of observing and try to get close enough to Ginger to get a picture of her sweet face, but Maria won't hear of it, and in the end my best picture of Ginger is of her feet sticking out from under her mother's ponderous belly and breasts, as she continually gets between us.

I see love here in this family. Maria nuzzles Ginger who closes her eyes and gives one perfectly appropriate little girl mew. Charlie comes alongside Gladys pressing his nose up under her neck and just breathes for a long moment. She turns to him and rests her chin on his shoulder, her eyes closed. Hell, who needs eagles anyway?

The sun is setting low. I return to my own family not at all sure I have observed enough to come up with anything to say. I take one look back at this strange, sweet, post-nuclear family and realize that I have learned something about myself from these stupid cows. Family is as important a need as any. It is not enough to merely eat, sleep, and reproduce; I need to be needed. They need to be needed too. Whether it is a conscious thought or not, these stupid cows know the importance of family.

My three-year-old son comes to thank me for this day away from the house. I pick him up so he can get his small arms around my neck, and closing his eyes with a smile, he rests his head on my shoulder. My wife and I load up the children and head into the setting sun. There's one more rock art panel I want to show them before we leave.

Shannon Dunmyer

Acknowledgements

The editorial staff of the 2003 Nighthawk Review would like to extend its thanks to Jan Minich, Nancy Takacs, the English Department and the many writers who supported this worthwhile endeavor, and for promoting a magazine that allows talented C.E.U. writers a chance to see their works published.