Every time I walk in view of the Mendenhall Glacier, I must resist the urge to take its picture. The world does not need more images the ice river. This morning, Aki and I walk with it at out backs. I keep wanting to turn around to see its violet blue ice reflected in melt water. On an overcast day like this one, the ancient ice absorbs all but blue light.
Aki pays no attention to the glacier and ignores the indigo ice bergs that form islands on Mendenhall Lake even when I command, “Aki, look at that berg—the one shaped like a half empty sack of kibble. I know you can see the color blue. Doesn’t it make you little poodle heart go pitter patter? If she could talk, she would probably respond, “Man who fills the bowl, who eats peanuts in my presence and only shares one with your faithful protector, I can also see brown, the color of my fragrant scat, what you call “poop” or “not again,” but it doesn’t make my heart go pitty pat.” The poodle of my imagination is so long winded.