We spend today’s tiny allotment of sunshine at the Glacier. Tomorrow our rains return, possibly with enough strength to melt away winter’s beauty. A line of Juneauites stretches out toward a giant ice river. The little dog and her three humans join the line, feeling like theatre goers trying to catch a popular play before it closes. Some of us might be able to memorize a play’s plot, maybe even retain some of the actor’s lines. None of today’s visitors to the glacier will be able to recite the mountains’ crisp lines, the rich confusion of Nugget Falls, the dark blue of a patch of ancient ice set to collapse into ice bergs during next spring’s thaw, or the cloud dervishes that dance around the rising sun.