Listening Under the Ice

The glacier is a cathedral turned sideways, blue ribs holding their breath. We lower a microphone into a meltwater throat and wait for the planet to clear its voice.

Beneath, a slow orchestra of vents and stones— steam threading through basalt like bright needles. The sound is a kettle before the boil, a choir of pressure and patient heat.

Our notebooks frost at the corners, pencils squeaking like mice in a wall. Somewhere a fissure opens, the ice flexes, and the whole field answers with a low, long yes.

At dusk the sky is a lens wiped clean. We pack up the cables, the day’s tremors, and walk home over a continent of listening, carrying the Earth’s pulse in our pockets.