There isn’t time for silence here when moment after moment thaws away, where days are pearls of water frozen in a colder year to polish cliffs with tears of every instant passed. To watch the sky in drifts of ice become a river, to feel an hour melt from eras long before me into winds that rise and carry mists of minutes cold as winter used to be–to see reflected in a wall just barely living all the lives it touches as it slowly ebbs and mirrors tides that years from now the water here will feed, to touch a day before it drips and joins the moments raging by is what it must be like to see an instant born of days before it, trapped in blue as pure as summer mornings and as cool and forceful as the rain it will create.

And I walked along the cusp of time arising from a storm severe and soaking. I watched a hundred years across the mountainside in beads of liquid breaking earth and heard the thunder of an aging world indifferent to the makeshift lifetime of an instant such as me. Crush me underneath this weight that takes its leisure making oceans, a conduit for fury formed in silence miles away where deep below the surface lie tomorrows and tomorrows waiting in a monochrome reflection.

Something in this angry song of ice and water, somewhere in this crisp and brutal blue that scars the earth so slowly there’s a tragic sense that every minute falling off and rushing past has happened once before, that here where history is trapped in frozen rivers is a place where suffering and laughter still to come are culled from other years yet fettered in the ice.

#Matanuska #Glacier

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