Absent of taproot, the black spruce leans madly where permafrost slumps into thermokarst. Who wouldn't fall down soused when the ground beneath began to melt, to buckle and sink? Who wouldn't drink?
In the boreal forests, in a landscape staggered with lurching birches, ice is a memory, while farther north, where glaciers begin to thin, ice is memory, or the keeper of memories, a kind of collective mind
On supporting science journalism
If you're enjoying this article, consider supporting our award-winning journalism by subscribing. By purchasing a subscription you are helping to ensure the future of impactful stories about the discoveries and ideas shaping our world today.
in which buried deep are layers of ancient volcanic ash, soot from fires primeval, banked bubbles of archaic air— stories stored, frozen, in cerulean cerebral cortex, a vortex stilled, which soon may spill. The polar ice, in stripes, remembers
what we weren't here to recall, but as with all memory, what is buried in the blue yonder—if it escapes the icescape— could kill us. Deep memory is a danger zone. Ice is another nether. No wonder it numbs. No wonder it burns.
It’s Time to Stand Up for Science
If you enjoyed this article, I’d like to ask for your support. Scientific American has served as an advocate for science and industry for 180 years, and right now may be the most critical moment in that two-century history.
I’ve been a Scientific American subscriber since I was 12 years old, and it helped shape the way I look at the world. SciAm always educates and delights me, and inspires a sense of awe for our vast, beautiful universe. I hope it does that for you, too.
If you subscribe to Scientific American, you help ensure that our coverage is centered on meaningful research and discovery; that we have the resources to report on the decisions that threaten labs across the U.S.; and that we support both budding and working scientists at a time when the value of science itself too often goes unrecognized.
