It’s the crisp, chemical smell
of the ice, of metal slicing through it,
the heat of a zamboni melting the surface.
It's the hum of the generator,
the AC on full blast. The perfect escape
in August when you’re sweating
off ten percent of your weight in water
just sitting in the sun.
It's like the hum of a river, constant.
Not the sea that comes in waves
crashing to the shore. The noise is perpetual,
consistent, like a Buddhist chant.
Trails of skate marks under a layer of freshly melted ice.
Melted and refrozen, the deeper grooves
never fully disappearing, creating a layered web of trails,
paths that have been carved out, then melted,