lessons from the arctic (1)

the glacier milk cuts your throat. when you drink it, you're left confusingly parched, until you look back at the rock face getting sandblasted smooth by x gallons per second of bluish-grey torrents. when you cup your hands in it, you realize it's the same color as the dirt when you peel back the moss for your cathole, the same color as the dusty-looking plants ringing the bog, a duller version of the uninterpretable glow from the distant glacier above you.

when you let the water fall back into the stream, it leaves the space under your fingernails black; no matter how gently you swallow, that's what sticks to your throat and churns your belly.

27 August 2018 20:20

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