FROST

When one has become intimate with the glacier through long explorations it is a joy to walk along it on a beautiful summer day. The warmth of the sun has given it back its movement and its voice. Veins of water, almost imperceptible at first, form here and there, then unite in glittering rivulets that meander along the bottom of miniature river beds they have just dug for themselves and suddenly disappear in a crack in the ice with a small, silvery-voiced wail. As if by magic, the sun heats the air. It transforms the streams into torrents that drain the alluvium onto the banks. With it, the glacier takes on a new voice. It is literally resurrected.

(Thinking Like an Iceberg, pp. 31-32)