Underwater Birds

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I have a tiny little white room to myself in the employee dorm. I have a massive glacial lake just outside my door.
It’s unbearably blue, surrounded by snowcapped peaks that crowd the sky with their enormity. Perfectly smooth pebbles in all shades of plum and blue and gray, tiny waves as clear as glass. The light in the water plays tricks on you. It looks like the bank is undulating with the wave.

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If you’re lucky you might get to see a loon. Their calls sound like they’re coming to you from the afterlife.

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There are nooks all around the lake, with velvet smooth white logs and mossy banks and little streams meeting the shore.
I go here as often as I can to draw and put some sun in my eyes.

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Originally named ‘Sacred Dancing Waters’ by the Blackfeet that lived here, white settlers found the name ‘McDonald’ scrawled on a nearby tree– just another homesteader who had passed through before them. Early graffiti. What drives humans to so compulsively scratch their mark onto everything? Maybe all these mountains overwhelm us with our own impermanence.

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im a flat-celled flower, you won’t stick to my cones
bees slip off in the wind, undo.
here we were, a pair of underwater birds
summiting mountains like
sunburnt sherpas, caught in clouds, but
she remembers every detail of a strawberry
in a box
in a dream.

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