shy

A few years ago I hiked up to Andrew’s Glacier.  A quiet pool rests beneath it, I sat there for a while contemplating my existence while simultaneously wondering how long he would be here.  I wonder how long before it recedes from our view, before it vanishes and dissipates into the air.  Maybe someday I will look to the clouds and say “there goes Andrew” and “wonder if he’s watching over us.”  Or will he become a part of a storm that produces a tornado that drills through Tennessee.  Or will he be rushing like a waterfall, stammering in a rage, protesting like a newborn.  Now he just trickles and drips little by little, disappearing in such small integers’ that it’s barely noticed.  Some scientist predicts that Andrew could be gone in as little as 20 years.