Traveling forward and back.
A year ago to the day.
The ice is singing.
Or crying.
Or just lamenting in clear tones to no one in particular.
If string theory had a sound, I imagine it would sound something like this.
Catapulting between here and there.
Paradoxical.
A loud whisper, a haunting sort of echo.
Distant, immediate.
An unfamiliar tongue.
An open mouth, an open doorway.
The water is shifting, the ice too.
Gasping and moaning as they take on a new shape.
Like they always do.
Melodic. Eerie. A momentary lapse of self.
She calls out expecting an answer.
© Elizabeth McLaughlin
