Pine trees on the ridge wrapped in clouds,
the toad in the stream wrapped in water that
has only been water since seeping off a glacier
1000 meters up; Allison slowly makes her way higher,
her head wrapped in a red bandana, the trees
wrapped in autumn, the yellow & orange
of leaves still hanging on. The slight drizzle of rain,
the manner in which her hair, her coat, her boots
absorb each drop as she climbs, a counterpoint
to the melting glacier, the water rushing past her
through the same large rocks she navigates,
rocks that form the memory of snow,
her feet touching, moving over them as
Mt. Ushba is hidden in mist, yet
when she looks up, she sees glacier like an
iceberg submerged in water, not the peak,
but the underbelly & its slow movement
quickening, a river running under it,
the 50-foot wall of ice, the small streams carving
it down to feed the heavy rush that emerges
from the mouth, a mouth like a cave or
her mouth, this woman like a goddess
who works her way uphill, sings like glacial water,
sings of the history of mountains, plate tectonics,
& cirques—she sings standing on the edge
of autumn, trees wrapped in a cool,
misty air, the earth’s movement larger
than she can hike in a day.
Photo by Paata Vardanashvili