"Moving low to the ground--through mud or snow, across puddles, over gravel--can be a messy affair. In the best of conditions, my hands get scratched; my wrists, elbows, and shoulders grow sore from bearing my body weight; sharp rocks stab my hamstrings. Even so, I adore scooting. It slows me down, distance no longer measured in miles but rather in yards. I creep, inch, linger. This pace creates intimacy and space for the tiniest details: mushrooms pushing up through pine needles, spores dotting the underside of ferns, miniature icicles hanging on the tips of cedar branches."
-Eli Clare, "Moving Close to the Ground: A Messy Love Song," Unfurl: Survivals, Sorrows, and Dreaming
