We are walking toward Mendenhall Glacier,
it's 15 degrees Fahrenheit, or so,
there is an inch of dry sandy snow
atop the lake's frozen face,
it creaks under our feet, like a wooden boat.

the sky is blank-blue
the sun is washing the snow, ice, and mountains
in blinding white and shadows

our Ophelia has questions about the ice.

"what will happen when the ice is gone?"
I dig my brain, inside myself,
I don't really know.

my instinct is toward the material,
the tangible, like my wife:

"we won't be able to see the glacier
from here anymore."

Ophelia turns this for a beat,
"Does the ice get smaller?"
"yep"

It does.
Where does it go?
It melts.
Where does it go?
It flows in rivers to lakes and the ocean.

I churn inside myself
how much does a 7 year old need to know?
how much do I actually know?

the sun bleaches the colors of the world,
the ancient ice glows an ethereal blue,
the mountains tower their power.

I think of the end,
of all of this,
to all of this.

Later,
we eat
a hamburger and French fries.