Archive of Meltwater

We kept a library in the blue throat of ice, spines of air, pages of trapped summer. Each drip a syllable loosening its coat, a bright bead sliding toward the valley.

The moraine was a ramp of ink and stone; lichen wrote slow sentences on the ribs. Wind, our patient librarian, turned the loose-leaf snow and sighed.

In the meltwater the mountains reappeared, their faces rinsed, their old names resurfacing. A child cupped a palm and held a whole decade, listened to the cold speak in birdlike clicks.

By evening, the river carried the archive onward, silver and ordinary, a rumor in motion. We walked home with wet sleeves, unable to shelve what had chosen to move.