Singing Ice's image
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Across the rigid icescape they heave

and haul colossal cables to the shadows

on the opposite shore. We shudder at the echoing

crack and coil of tensile steel on the cold lid of winter.

Back and forth the spectres murmur.

We hear them hum the hymns of the dead;

ceremonial chants that rise and fall for hours,

that, gathering volume, resonate like breathless

air across empty glass. We venture out a foot or so.

beneath us air-sharks drop and dive through

slivers of thickening water, then rise to slam

the frozen under-surface. They tear long rips

that roar along the night, tracking us and splitting

the marbled floor at our feet. The percussions

petrify the living and the dead sing on.

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