The Cartographer of Meltwater

At noon the glacier sighs into a tin basin, a slow instrument tuned to light. I watch the beads unhook, each one a lantern learning the grammar of gravity.

We were told the ice keeps archives, ledgers of cold and ancient breath. Now the pages loosen, drift past our ankles, soft as a story refusing its ending.

I carry a notebook, but the river writes faster. It braids silver through black stones, sketching a map that changes while I lift my pen, roads made of water, borders made of hurry.

By dusk the meltwater turns copper, and the valley smells like wet iron and grass. I fold the day into a pocket of my coat and walk home with a compass that points to thaw.