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Spring Edition 2019, Issue 04 An extremely local literary magazine for Northwestern Pennsylvania Poetry | Prose | Imagery FEATURED WRITER FEATURED PHOTOGRAPHER Philip Terman Paul Staniszewski Philip Terman is the founder of the Chautauqua Paul Staniszewski is an award-winning Writers’ Festival and the coordinator of The Bridge photographer known best for his images of Literary and Arts Center. His work has been published Pennsylvania elk. His work has been featured on in Poetry Magazine, The Kenyon Review, The Georgia a television series, "Wild About Animals" and he Review, The Sun Magazine and The Bloomsburg was recently named a Creative Maker by PA Anthology of Contemporary American Jewish Poetry. Wilds. (Featured photograph inside) Submit your work, find resources, and get involved: thewatershedjournal.org [email protected] ! " Le er from “Through our eyes, the universe is perceiving itself. Through our ears, the universe is listening to its harmonies. We are the witnesses through which the universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its magnificence.” - Alan Watts What does it mean to choose to live in Northwestern Pennsylvania? For many, it means staying close to family and friends, participating in tradition and deepening our roots. Others have been drawn in by the region's natural resources, slower pace and lower cost of living. There are many wonderful reasons to call this place home. When we started The Watershed Journal a year ago, our grandest dream was to celebrate those who have chosen to make their lives here in this part of Northern Appalachia. In the past year we have been witnesses to a growing community of voices that are testaments to the richness of lives in our area. From writer's meetings to public performances to the submissions that have made this magazine possible, we are blown away by both the power and tenacity of the writers, photographers and artists who are making their voices heard. This publication is dedicated to our region's storytellers and to those who love them. Our stories matter! photo by Paul Staniszewski thewatershedjournal.org Jessica Weible Sarah Rossey [email protected] executive editor managing editor ISSUE 04 SPRING 2019 poetry, short stories and essays by PHILIP TERMAN Father Bird PETER BUCKLAND Vespers of the Barrens KATHY MYERS The Touch DAVID TOBIN An Appalachian Day LAURIE BARRETT Wishes in the Wind JAN SADY Spring Songs ANDIE ROSS The River PAUL STANISZEWSKI The Art of Wildflower Macrophotography PAUL STANISZEWSKI Full-Page Photograph REBECCA HOFF Walter PATRICIA THRUSHART On Union Hill CODY WELLS Winter's Journey WAYNE SWANGER Helix ANTHONY VALLONE The Ducks and Geese of Tannery Dam CINDY SCULLY The Jacket JOE TAYLOR Change AMY SALSGIVER Still Out There COREY GOOD The Rhyme PATTY SUSKO Perennial People JOHN POZZA Knights of the Roundball Table JOHN MILLER Airing Ezra's Attic GREG CLARY Today W. HILL Scent KIRKE WISE Just Another Mother's Day PEGGY ZORTMAN The Swing GIRARD TOURNESOL The Blue Bottle BYRON HOOT Wait Not with images and photography by PAUL STANISZEWSKI | KYLE YATES | TRICIA GRUNICK JAN SADY | BILLIANA KOVACS | GREG CLARY LAURIE BARRETT | PEGGY ZORTMAN | NATE CRISPIN ANTHONY MANGINO, INTROSPECTIVE IMAGES The Father Bird by Philip Terman The cry of a goose splits the morning. Wind scatters light across the surface, a swift’s beak clutches dragon<ly wings and the memory of the traincar, the stopover in Chicago, the walk with my father for salami and rye bread in a paper bag through the sweaty crowd—shadows and raincoats, the conductor calling all aboard as we step up to its departure, the sliding into the west of forgetfulness. Salami and rye bread in a paper bag. My father making the sandwiches and passing them around, framed by the Midwestern expanse. Seven years old, we were disappearing into the country. And that’s all. Salami and disappearing and my father. Now eight geese <loat aimlessly on the surface. Is my father portioned out equally among them? Or is he the one spreading silently its wings, as if measuring photo by Greg Clary the air for further <light. How otherwise unrecognizable from the others, Canadian, except this one distinguishing itself—perhaps an itch, an irritation, or the way the current sweeps across its feathers and it honks, a solitary cry, and another repeats, and another, climbing and scaling, a beating of water, a <luttering farewell. Vespers in the Barrens by Peter Buckland These hills were carved by Carnegies' and Thompsons' full ferrous might. The jack and pitch pine’s brown paper needles and rigid brawny cones festoon the >loor, some magnate’s afterthought. On a steep hill vertigo takes me as I look over the verge of an emptied ore pit. I kneel on the ground, certain of your death— not of its imminence— just its inevitability. I pluck some sandy loam and needles, rub it between my >ingers, put it on my forehead as if it were Ash Wednesday, and pray at vespers for the >irst time in twenty years. photo by Kyle Yates photo by Anthony Mangino There’s a simple pair of rods on a peg in our barn Holding the rods while walking around the area collecting dust. Fashioned by my husband out of two where we planned to build, the pieces of metal old coat hangers, their original purpose was to ;ind seemed to come alive in my hands, crossing at three water on our vacant 41 acres in the Beechwoods of major locations near the proposed house site. I had Jefferson County where we planned to build our no explanation for this phenomenon other than to home. exclaim, “I have the touch!” He had been reading about water dowsing on the Thesaurus explains touch as a gift, knack, ability, internet, the process of detecting the groundwater in talent or ;lair. Again, the experts say water dowsing is the subsurface just beneath our feet. Water dowsing not scienti;ic, some suggesting it is the will of the is also known as “water divining” and “water person holding the rods that causes their muscles to witching." Some “dowsers” use special forked twigs, move thereby moving the rods. Others say dowsing is others use metal rods. While water dowsing is no better than chance. Still, others believe that one’s considered by some to be a pseudoscience and others dowsing ability involves an energy force. Albert say there is no scienti;ic evidence that it is any more Einstein, in his time, believed the dowsing rod was a effective than random chance, my husband simple instrument showing the reaction of the human determined this would be his method of choice in nervous system to factors which were unknown. deciding where to drill our water well. Personally, I believe the explanation that it is a reaction to an energy force. With the newly-fashioned dowsing rods, one in each hand extended out before him, my husband walked The water well was drilled in one of the major spots I the property. What he expected would happen at identi;ied using my dowsing rods. And what a well it some point was that the two rods would cross over is! Initial testing showed it yielding 10 gallons per each other indicating a reserve of underground water. minute for one hour. It has never gone dry. At least that is what he read on the “net.” To his dismay, nothing happened. Surely there was a reserve Dowsing rods are said to be useful in locating of water somewhere underground! Disappointed in archaeological sites, lost jewelry, minerals, and oil the (non) results he said to me, “Here, you take them.” among other things. With spring upon us, I’m going to dust off those two rods and go out and start exploring. Now, I am not a person who is technical in any way. As I reluctantly took the rods from him, I was skeptical Hmmm, I wonder if the FBI recovered that rumored that I would be any more successful than he was. lost Civil War gold shipment? However, what happened next was inexplicable. Out in the morning mountain mist The breeze beckons this Nemophilist Haunter of the forest! Deep in the old growth I am found The forest is near My heart is here Tree trunks appear Branches silhouetted Drizzled and wet High on this hill Silent and still I sit without sound Reverence for this ground Love from above Sense all around Those who abound These wooded highlands Dawn rings the early spring The sparrow lights upon a seed pod Sings a welcoming aubade A cheerful chickadee chirps to all in Arcady A blue jay announces the day Two grey squirrels come out to play. …later I make way This mapped place, now spiritual space Grateful for my stay photo by Kyle Yates An Appalachian day. Wishes in the Wind by Laurie Barrett Wishes in the wind Make me believe Delicate and free Seed of hope into the unknown A destination of roots to sow Wishes in the wind Much to be seen Miles to go Fly away simple beauty Carry my dream photo by Nate Crispin A Cardinal’s song Soars above the trees— Melodious notes— Welcome to my ears. Crows answer back With songs not as mellow As their neighbors. Chickadees join in— Black-Caps Blitting among oaks. Their chorus rises together— “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee.” A Catbird calls— Is he really a Catbird or The Mockingbird imitating His cousin? Blue Jays screech adding more Noise than music But lending their notes To spring’s songs. Musical notes blend in harmony— Like a rehearsed choir— All singing their parts well— In a chorus to celebrate spring.

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