You cranked it into cruise control,
ten centuries back,
at least.
And here you are, still,
scrawling,
sketching,
scribing out
this wide, wild country.
You lie lazy, frozen
in a time,
when time got lodged
between the black basalt’s
jagged peaks,
and their whitely topped scalps.
The earth is your playground,
your workshop,
your loyal canvas.
And here you are, still
secreting summits
with your heavenly craft.
You bleed. Oh!
How you bleed!
Your blood, a mad torrent,
whitecaps whirling,
crashing,
crushing,
chewing up,
anything that stifles,
your destiny to sea.
Your blood, packed dense with,
stone, sand, mud,
your skin a milky marble touch
as the river surface settles,
sets, sinks, and soaks
into these eyes so eager.
And here you are, still,
sculpting always,
the Hoh River Valley;
mountains cloaked in rainforest
that which you always feed.
You move me,
sundering the soul from skin
awakening
some supine glowing self, rising
sliding along somewhere within.
Like a luminescent snail,
who lost its shell at sea.
And even in all of
that suspected stillness,
you slide forward.
As I stand high above you,
your breath of brawn,
brisk and bristling my bones,
brings salty sheets, a film
across my eyes,
filling full my pores,
brim with icy pummel.
And here you are, still,
a brash, boasting,
beast of a barricade,
bringer of life and death.
And here you are, still,
you wondrous,
beautiful
Glacier,
Blue.
