The Land Is Not Confused, A Grammar Older Than Roads
This land is not confused; its grammar is older than roads. I come to it by way of a turning circle, long before I name it, a medicine wheel singing of asphalt and story. Each revolution brings different questions, they rumble up through the wheels, through the frame, through my hands and into my body. My circle began in the upper north, where the pines sing with the west wind, and the…














