Somehwere in this body there are roots…

Sara Aranda

Photo: Eliza Earle

Creative and Collaborative Storytelling


“Is it the land I should speak of or the actions that are housed? Winter is when all traipses are given away by snow — the unseen but innate. Like the body and its processes. Suddenly there is a ridge across my fingernail or a new freckle tracking the sun across my shoulder. Suddenly there is a bank of snow by the saltbrush, pressed cloves of wild turkey feet. The whitetail deer are as still as the grass and the deer mice are as transient as a predator’s shadow. I am fogging up the window with my mouth and the sheep dig into the snow crust with their hooves.

Eventually, I doze off to the thrumming road. The turkeys and deer and sheep have already pressed on. I have not disappeared and neither have they. I wake to the absence of the horizon, but even then, the prairie dogs are surely nuzzling in a darkness only the earth could create.”