at glacier national park

at glacier national park

{at glacier national park}

at glacier national park, the virgin sleeps in rock between giants of ice slipping away into warm pools, hourglassing their existence. she doesn’t move for daybreak or nightfix or when snow collects in the wrinkles of sediment layering like wedding cake frosted and clean and sweet. instead, she sleeps.

at glacier national park, twelve-thousand steps will take you to eagle crest waterfall trickling at the bottom but lion roaring at the top. you suck in microcosms as the cold cold water pours from cupped hands down your throat and does something to the geometry of your brain. and still, the virgin sleeps.

at glacier national park, moose watch through pine as you realize you’ve never noticed the sky before, never really noticed it. your skull cranks up, neck bowed, to watch the virgin in her sleep, the way the peaks of her feet and forehead and the valleys of her throat and waist move as sound waves in an antibacterial silence. and you stand for years which feel like minutes.