by Moriah Hampton
Along the Oconaluftee River,
I follow the path
winding through the park
decked with Christmas
sculptures. Multi-colored
lights wink,
water swooshes,
speakers pipe
O Holy Night.
I walk to the wood-planked bridge
and encounter a locked gate
on which is posted this sign–
“Attn Anglers: Eastern
Hellbenders (‘water dogs’)
are known to be present
in this stream . . . If you catch
a hellbender on hook
and line: Please immediately
release the animal . . .”
Past the bridge,
I encounter
another sign—
“Registered sex offenders
prohibited in restricted areas.”
How to make sense of this place?
Along the nearest bank,
I stride craning
my neck,
searching for giant
salamanders weaving
around boulders,
their long bodies
leaving behind sand trails.
Above pinks and purples
from the western sun
smudge the horizon,
evoking a summer day
when the river swells
with people swimming,
tubing, canoeing.
I am among those people,
as are you.
Near the bank, I stand
knee-deep in cool water–
a younger me playing
with a younger you.
We splash,
arms flailing,
hands smacking the water.
You point—
beneath a boulder nearby
a salamander’s flat head is exposed.
Then another head appears.
And another.
Their slick bodies
tucked underneath smooth granite.
Present all along,
alive only a few feet away,
just as you stand near me on this gravel path,
the outline of your form enduring,
you, who were with us then before being prohibited.
I turn away from the river
to find my way
through shadows
drifting, step-by-step.