Those who first gave a name to this land held it in their mouths as their own. It was the taste of corn weighing down the stalks. It was the thick white honey of the chirimoya, and the moon-pulp of the custard-apple, and the oily seed of the sapodilla, and the slow oozing of juice from the lacerated palm. But it was also the cloudy vapor rising betimes to lay on the leaves the footprint of its passing. It was the warm panting of the domesticated animal and the furtive breath of the prowler. And the rhythmic absorption of air by the moors at night. It was a symbol too: of one who traces the pheasant in high flight, and leaves the snake in the sand.
The Nine Guardians, by Rosario Castellanos
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