by Holly Day
He stares through the ice, a weathered
leathered thing, twisted by centuries of glacial movement
a slow procession dragging him down the mountain.
One day, scientists will rip open his flesh
study the contents of his stomach
count his few remaining teeth
wonder and speculate at the meaning of his tattoos
the noticeable impact holes in the back of his head.
What they will never know
is the name of the dog he left behind
patiently pacing back at camp, hackles raised
at the howl of the wind, they will never know
of the children and women, worried at home
unable to fill the gap the quiet man left behind.
Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and The Muse Writers Center in Virginia..
header image: “Glaciers on Ötztal Alps” by Tiia Monto is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0.
