Description
By noon the snow has already paid its rent. Cold water leaves the high crease of the peak, finds the stones it knows by heart, and spends itself in bright, useless hurry—white ruffles, clear panes over rounded rock, a glitter that lasts only as long as the sun holds. On the bank the flowers keep different books: yellow heads lean in, purple lupines take attendance, red paintbrush claims the warmest cracks in the moss. A swallowtail clocks in on a lupine spire; monarchs argue the air above the spray. Nobody asks the creek to slow down. Midday meltwater was never meant to stay.
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