From the lecture hall projector beams a phantom glacier, filling the screen with a map of Colorado. The colorful shading illustrates the decline in annual snowfall. A red cloud overwhelms this town where streams diminish, where a teenager skims a manual, cleaning her semiauto for weekend mornings hunting elk by ponderosa pines each year less green, half of them tinder. Down Main Street denim pockets jingle coins and keys to pickups still uncaked by rock salt. Skiers sulk. An empty chairlift sways in a dry breeze. The sun shines all winter. Recycled paper notebooks weigh the backpack zipped for the walk to biology where jellyfish on television swarm the vacant sea as lamps the lighting aisle at Lowe’s, where solar panels pay for themselves in ten years, blurring a glimpse too real, too nightmarish for direct examination—the day when power fails—though the neon vacancy at the motel shines on, and preppers hoard their nails and batteries. Monarch migrations dwindle, AM stations decay. Thermometers fluctuate near thirty degrees. A chickadee chimes like a bell.