The Wisdom of Making Ice

The Wisdom of Making Ice

Riverside.

The floods of other years

Have created a scour-shelf for me

To sit on and ponder the cobble

Deposited since God knows when.

I’m here on a colder day then usual.

I want to listen to the river

As it forms ice floe

And floats them like saucers down a whispering glide.

A distance above and below I see riffles.

They are chattering away I know.

Probably talking to Norman Maclean

About the foundation of time

As the riffle-words crawl out

From under the rocks

Like the stoneflies will

In another week or two.

Here though, heat is a ghost rising

As the ice forms.  I know the formula.

I’m a scientist and measure such things

As how much heat is given off

When water changes to ice.

I’ll say 144 BTUs per pound of ice.

That is probably a sacred number in mythology.

No one else in Hamilton, Montana cares about that.

They should be here now though

To hear the ice maker speak

During this 20-degree day and night water parade.

Unlike the riffles, the glide speaks gently and is reassuring.

Now and then a platter of ice runs against another.

“Clink” such a collision said.  I wonder what that means in River-Talk.

Its simple words are not literature.

The riffles speak in parables.

Glides speak in romantic subtleties.

“Hush” is the main suggestion

And I heed it as I watch from my perch.

A bald eagle flies upstream not 50 feet from me,

Perfectly intent on the business of looking for anomaly.

“Hush!” The ice slides by again and commands.

I reply, “I was only watching the eagle, but you heard me”.

“Hush!

And I obey.  Here alone, the workings of the aged connections

Of this place are not altered. 

Should you and I, my love, take watch here

The river might glide by and hold its tongue.

In that case, I would lean over to you

Place my chin on your shoulder and whisper,

“Hush”.