For Zippy, and the Children Yet to Come

One day, my little one, you may ask me, “Grandad, what was a glacier?” I shall search for words to describe a mountain that breathed rivers into valleys, a cathedral of ice that outlived kingdoms, yet could not outlive us. Perhaps you will never hear a laughing brook running through summer meadows, or kneel beside its clear waters to watch trout dance with the light. You may know these wonders only as pictures in forgotten books, or faded stories told by old people who remember when the earth still sang. Forgive us. We inherited a garden and have left you an apology.