There is life among the rocks.
Ochre lichen flakes like scales on a collapsed fish.
Raptors circle the nearest flinch.
Fireweed and lodgepole feather out of recent ash.
Seared trunk-bones, the slope in a deep exhaustion.
Frost, wedged between rocks, drips into bright crevasses.
Tarns, ink-pots, run-off, what grinds through granite.
Bluest sky, bluest ice:
the eras are deep vaults, peeking and seeping beyond.
And the ridge line is the skyline is pure water.
Glaciers are bitter, unsurvivable.
Forces that are understood but not believable.
The seas push up into air, tiny fish-bones against the clouds.
At the rim, the immensity of my son, breaking sticks, salt in his hair.