Here, in the west, our blood is built of snowmelt. Up here,
feet of crystalline water lingers on through summer, sags down
into the catchment bases of cliffs, gathers wind-blown dust and orange fungus
and occasionally animal fur. The sun's slow tumult across the southern sky
tears at the compacted granules, making them weep their bitter memories
back into the earth. Trollius, globeflower, and Caltha, marsh marigold,
and even Ranunculus adoneus—the buttercup of Adonis—
can be seen bursting through, proud of Winter’s longing.
“The White North is now sleeping
through miles of dark soil.” I remember, walking
along Aspen Creek to the spring—la source— our life.
“It feeds us. Is us. The water we drink becomes our blood,
and Old Man Niwot, he blew it here." Thank him,