The Pacific deepens to a richer gray with each day's journey north. I see the endless horizon in constant change as the sun arches: reflecting, absorbing light. Crisp air, unsullied by civilization. Vague, dark shadows lie far in the distance to the east, the only evidence of land.

Lacy wavelets flow outward in ordered cadence from the ship's sides. The forward surge creates a playground for accompanying dolphins below me.

sun gleams
off sleek black and white -
billowing clouds

Barely noticeable, the ship veers eastward toward the fjord's entrance. Even on the highest deck, I feel oppressed by the dark, fir-bristled mountains rising on either side. Chunks of ice flow past. Solitary islets stand sentinel as we ease our way through the narrow strait.

The sun is high in vivid blueness, scattered clouds starkly white. Such pristine silence is unexpected, almost frightening.

Another turn; many more ice floes pass below; the passage grows narrower. We funnel toward a vast, open inlet. On entering--confrontation with Hubbard Glacier, a soaring monument of blue-white ice glares in the sun.

Breathtaking. Enormous. A vast expanse. A remnant of our antediluvian past.

A shard breaks off to plunge into the frigid sea.

spray erupts
a resounding crack
shatters the hush

so close
the majestic mountain -
six miles away
 

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about the author:
Originally from NYC, Allen lives, writes, acts and directs theatre in Mexico. His published fiction, non-fiction, poetry, plays, photos, etc., have appeared in print as well as online in NY Times, The Writer, Newsday, Literary Potpourri, Flashquake, Poetry Midwest, Poetic Voices, Heron's Nest, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, World Haiku Review, and many others. He is haibun editor for Simply Haiku.
Website: http://tinyurl.com/m7il  

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