When glaciers melt, they do not whistle.
They stretch apart, silent as torn fabric,
sending streams where walls once stood,
their edges whispering secrets to the sun.
A river remembers the taste of ice,
a cool tongue quenching stone-thirst.
Now, it runs thinner each passing season,
unable to keep the promises it made.
The fish lose their maps,
the bears lose their time,
the trees brace for drier summers,
holding their breath against a brittle sky.
In this breaking, there is a hollowing,
a quiet void echoing beneath the boots
of hikers who stop to take pictures
of what used to move mountains.
And we, who rely on this quiet,
who sip from the veins of these giants,
pretend they will not vanish entirely,
as if belief alone could freeze time.