To all yee who wade into these waters,
be weary. Beavers are aggressively territorial over their family
and the land they love; the scented mounds they mourn
the dead with, the dams they build with kin and womb-fresh
kits, the rivers fused to threads of streams, the trees that keep growing
even after they’re gone. They slap the water
to get you to notice. And it is beaver mating season, so wear rubber
and be on high alert throughout these deer-cleared trails of diction
and rapids of treacherously beautiful art. They are dusk-hungry
and itching for the touch of a talon or stroke of a tail, moon-eyed
for a mate. But sometimes summer breeze feels like the bed-hot breath
of a lost lover, or the imprint of an oakleaf in the mud looks like your face.
Sorry I got sappy and started writing a love letter warning poem, my sentimental beaver brain sat on the cold leather of the driver’s seat for a hot second. Whew, go eat your spicy baked beans in your cozy car seat baby, kick your paws up on the dash. Relax, I’ll put on some Khruangbin for you and crank the heat.
We are so clucking stoked to share this gorgeous issue with all yee who dare tread in the wrath of love-sprung beavers. There is a weaving trend of adoration; for the self, for a bliss you can’t claw back to, for a time that never happened, for sinking into the static of nature or the purr of a sleeping chest, for sizzling in the hot grease of love while the world crumbles around you. We are blessed to showcase the work of these beautiful beings from around the world and our backyards.
My keyboard is getting too wet with tears so I’m going to let the gorgeous words of these individuals do the rest of the talking. Thank you for dipping your cute mammal toes into our pixelated pond, we are so grateful for this love. You make us feel like were filled with spring; the hum of bees in our bones, the dew glowing in morning sun on our lashes, the flash flood tearing through our hearts. Stay happy and safe and always curious.
Thank you fellow mammals,