Nicolette L. Cagle, September 1, 2026
Eno River, Durham, NC
As I walk among the varied notes of a choral matins, sung by fish crows and blue jays and mockingbirds, I look up to the vaulted glory of my forest cathedral and give quiet thanks.
I see streaks of carnation pink brushed across the azure firmament—a “rosy-fingered dawn” painted by Eos. The Western European canon once had gods and goddesses who spoke to my true denomination.
But those gods have fallen, preserved in Homeric epic and lines that echo in my ears like song, calling out, desperate to be noticed, like the kingfisher that rattles over the river.
I have spent half a lifetime trying to find the names of the gods of the woods and goddesses of the river in English. They are as simple and sonorous as sycamore and swallowtail, as rich and all-encompassing as love and hope.
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