Orion Spring 2019

THIS living flowing land,” writes the poet Gary Snyder, “is all there is, forever/We are it/it sings through us.” That really is the way it was between people and nature, for hundreds of thousands of years. The distinction between the two was slight, evanescent, even nonexistent. Who we are was irrevocably linked to the natural world. These days, people are more likely to encounter animal life on screens than in person. We are quick to blame lap-tops and Xboxes and iPhones for luring people indoors and away from direct experience of nature, but let’s not kid ourselves — human culture has been distancing itself from the living flowing land for millennia. The reasons for this—or the culprits, as it may be—are many. The hunter-gatherer way of life that humans relied…

Bryce Andrews lives on a farm in western Montana. His first book, Badluck Way, was published in 2014 and received several awards. His second, Down from the Mountain, was published this April. Christopher Bakken is the author of the culinary memoir Honey, Olives, Octopus and three books of poetry. He teaches at Allegheny College. Jenny George is the author of The Dream of Reason. She lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she works in social justice philanthropy. Jessica Grindstaff is the artistic director and cofounder of Phantom Limb Company. She lives in New York City. Anya Groner’s essays, stories, and poems have appeared in Guernica, the New York Times, The Atlantic, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Orleans. Rebecca Hutchinson received her MFA from the University of…

FROM OUR READERS I ALWAYS APPRECIATE a blaring Kings-north wake up. It is like the car alarm in the parking lot that won’t shut off because the owner is too far away to hear it. The message in “Life versus the Machine” (Winter 2018) is an oft-repeated one by writers at this time (and in this magazine): “The collapse of the industrial economy is, in all likelihood, the only remaining way to prevent the mass destruction of life on Earth.” It is a simple and soul-crushing statement supported over and over with hope-crushing facts. Yet rather than sinking me down, I found this article refreshing. Kingsnorth is able to call everyone, including himself, on their bullshit. The alarm is blaring and everyone is ignoring it. The only real solution is…

JUST YESTERDAY, after picking my way up the short flagstone path from our house to the roadside, bending and weaving through katsura branches and ferns, stumbling on a sequoia root, breasting the chest-high thimbleberries, I discovered a card in our mailbox from someone who offered to buy our house. AS IS! the would-be buyer shouted in all caps. Last month one writer enthusiastically offered us CA$H! The month before that, a hopeful purchaser supplied a tear-jerking tale of a young family making a business of buying and selling fixer-uppers. The riotous streetside growth obscuring our Pacific Northwest house and small city lot also regularly attracts pink, blue, and yellow flyers slotted into our gate, advertising garden services galore. Our unknown correspondents clearly have a vision for what an appealing yard…

THE GEESE LAND one day amid the asphalt and anger and radio static and sweat, their feathers bright against the dull shades of our lives. Celebrity comes quickly. Inmates press their foreheads against dayroom windows on every floor of every tower, but the geese don’t mind: they’re ready for the attention. They preen and nip at each other, frolic in puddles formed by the spring rain. Soon there are newborn goslings peeking out from beneath shrubs all over the compound. Guys argue over what to name them, watch them for hours, and check anyone who thinks it’s funny to bother the flock. We envy the geese. They’ve come by choice, as if in solidarity, and soon they’ll spread wings we don’t have and leave this place on a whim. They…

THIS PAST SPRING, I fell in love with bees. There was some nuance to it; it wasn’t like I fell for every species with four wings. I fell for one of the biggest, for those within the bumblebee genus, Bombus. Their morphology resembles gnocchi. They have gold and black shag across their backsides, fringe all down their legs, and fur on their cheeks. I’m not sure why my attention gained such traction. Perhaps it was because they weren’t whizzing past, or half-deep in anthers. And neither was I, so to speak. I was on a foray for mushrooms, but at best I was browsing. The woods were gilded in pollen. They echoed with thrush song. I bent down to pick up a castaway can and caught sight of a bumble…