Alaska

From dirt to gravel and wood to water, from rot, rhythm, and revival. Time is a river that devours me. It is the frost that consumes me, but I am the frost. I walk through a forest and fly through the air. I dwell on my swings on a moonlit night. Glaciers pour the oxbow, grizzlies own the flowage. It is a portal where things unwind, a place still found in the wild. Steel becomes oxidized and gilled, turbid currents and drifted flesh, swung flies thrown to a bucket and brought back. A trophy is hooked and stops time, but it's grit and the grind, and the legend becomes immortal.