The Aura of a Self-Willed Land


The Aura of a Self-Willed Land

by Sara Aranda

“Mountains have many moods.” – Jack Turner


At night the Milky Way dusts the sky
falls to powder the Earth by day,
snow cluttered labyrinths
between the trees and the ice-laced river.
Shadows leave numb strands of bark
old elk tracks wander
soon the snow will braid itself,
erase myself, too.
A lesson for the wanderer.
Like the owl
who leaves the perch,
or the bear who leaves
the den at dawn
to follow the dust
back into the sky.


The long grass in the lake
waves ever so slowly as hair would.
White flowers line the bank
trees echo in sighs
fish break the surface, throw themselves

Their splashes are like small hands
playing in the water.
But I am the animal that peers
from the shade of a pine.
I am nothing here
but animal, knowing animal sounds
and that the long grass does not care
how I sit. That I sit.
That I am the one who is waving.


Dragonfly and milkweed meadow.
Smoke fills the sky,
turns the sun a dark disk
erases the lines of all the granite walls,
a dreamscape of pastels
washed in dark milk.

The earth is speaking in cackling pops
somewhere in the next valley
but the birds here still croon
and the deer still roam the ferns—
just another day
on the wheel, here
where the meadow sings
by the river as foam
bitter tea of tannins and snowmelt
in pliant passage.


A granite buttress aches during the night
shrugs in flexion
tumbling shooting dust
rupture of mountain and tree
in such a way it is not a sum of parts
in premeditated mosaic—
it is spontaneous conviction
instantaneous burgeoning, where
a gaggle of geese carry spiritual alchemy—

where chaos creates its own change,
like a star born from the bodies of worms
emerging, finally, from crude rotting cloud
wild and fierce, a new corpse
among a talus of constellations
a great beast in this valley of darkness
sparkling and stinging, there
abate in new yawning skin.

And there, the moon rises to the final thrum
of settling shudder, wrapping motherly
the nude flesh
of this infant star turned stone.


I wake up by Hot Creek
a thermal river beneath the Eastern Sierra;
a gray morning over this desert cattle land
weaned from mountains.

There is no wind to stir my skin.
Low clouds drift about the distant cliffs
catching intimacy in granite edges.

I am awake but hungry and worn.
My breath built miniature icicles on the inside of my tent
and when I shake them free
they fall like sand to the grass
only melting when the light is enough
to turn them into ghosts.

I am the one out of sync here
just a visitor to this range
of mountain speak
despite the animalia of my skin—
the aura of a self-willed land
I have yet to become.




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