The jelly is a tawny peach color, and the flavor is hard to describe. I might compare it to apple pie with lemon: sweet, extra tangy. But another element lurks in the flavor that I can’t compare to anything else. I think it’s the essence of wildness, clean prairie air made solid. It contains the deer that nibbled the leaves in winter, the brush of a grouse’s wing as it picked berries from the ground, the blundering invulnerability of a porcupine living under the ledge. It’s the taste of blinding white drifts slowly being built and smoothed into glittering sculpture outside the house as you make morning toast, slathering it with butter and buffalo berry jelly.
The jelly brings the flavor of summer heat to your tongue, a sheen of sweat to your shoulders; even as you watch the blizzard, it reminds you of spring fragrance and the cool nights of fall.
from “Finding Buffalo Berries”
an essay in Land Circle
Note: I ran across this passage in The Sierra Club Nature Writing Handbook (1995), by John A. Murray, and have often shared it in writer workshops as an example of exquisitely beautiful writing. These “Gorgeous Writing” posts are examples of memorable passages in great literature.