Slow River of Ice

It does not rush like spring water, nor tear at the banks with sudden wrath. Instead, it breathes in centuries, a slow exhalation of compacted winter.

Beneath the jagged, luminous crust, stones are ground to flour, the mountain's spine reshaped by weight alone, a quiet, relentless subtraction.

It carries the history of old storms locked deep within its blue veins. A silent march toward the valley, forgetting nothing, forgiving nothing.