Granite towers,
         sentinels of the past,
                 warners of these days.
The child phantom
         wanders through the hollow,
                 to collect its fragments
                         and put them together again.

Back to its present,
         as ridges and clouds
                 officiate the rite of yore.
No sound from the glacial basin,
         nor from the sloping conifer forest.
                 No drifting voice.
                         No echo.

Everything
         makes itself
                 whisper, word, cry.
Anything ambient
         betokens the intangible
                 and speaks by its appearance.
                         And the water still runs downhill.