ORACLE of the running meltwater, the tongue in which the dead ice still speaks. He appeareth as a bright creek hurrying over ledges of stone beneath a dark pyramid of a peak, red forests standing close along his run, the last snows above feeding him sentence by sentence. His office is to read aloud what the glaciers wrote: the Word stands silent in its lake and the Hand lies open on the mountain, but he is the sounding of the language, poured downhill without pause. What he says he says once, and is already saying the next thing. The ice spent ten thousand years upon its writing; the water spends it all in a single bright season, every year, and never reaches the end.
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