Kendra Nuttall

The Day the Mountains Disappear

My dog whines at the door, waiting to sunbathe on the balcony as she does every day. Every day the sky chokes on smoke from long-distance fires the wind can’t break up with. It’s wild, how the mountains still open their arms to gather the sun anyway, reaching through the smog for one last embrace. I can almost imagine the gasp, great Rockies drowning in gray, praying for the wind to move on again.

The Great Salt Lake Is Shrinking

At some point we will have to drop the “great” from its name and call it small like the brine shrimp living beneath its shore. All good things must come to an end, this is true. A little sunshine sparks smiles; too much burns skin. A little rain brings green; too much makes floods. And when there’s not enough— we drown in our droughts, the air heavy with heat and hopelessness— except for the brine shrimp, thriving since the Triassic. Call them small, but they built a home out of God’s forgotten tears. They took the sting of saltwater— disappointment after disappointment, and drank it in. All good things must come to an end, but as long as brine shrimp still swim, the small salt lake is Great.