When I first moved to Seattle, I was eighteen years old and I lived by myself in lower Queen Anne, by the Space Needle. I worked downtown at 3rd and Lenora, so my walk to work each day would take my through Seattle Center.

I have never been particularly interested in the Space Needle, but nearby to it is a rather wonderful lesser-known landmark, the International Fountain. While not as spectacular as its counterparts at, say, The Bellagio, it is far more remarkable due to its inviting and open structure. People of all ages can walk in and among the fountains parts, free to make up their own games of dodge-the-water with the ever-changing patterns that flow in time to the music.

Watching people interact with the fountain on a crowded summer day is a sight to behold. But equally compelling is the contemplative solitude of a walk through the fountain at night, alone.

At night, the fountain shuts down, and runs only a few heads at a trickle to keep water flowing through the system. It is just enough to cover the fountain's surface with a thick coating of water.

This is a song about a visit to the fountain in Winter. The walk down into the basin of the fountain is long and slow, curved along the side of the huge hemispherical crater. It is dark enough at night that the park lights only dimly illuminate the brushed metal surface of the fountain at its center. I have been there so many times, when I approach, I can recognize the smell and the sound. Although I go infrequently now, I still do the same ritual whenever I pass through alone at night: I stand next to the fountain, and I reach out my hand and press it against the surface to feel the water freeze over my hand.

And then, when it's time, I take my hand away and warm it in my pocket while I walk back up to the park above.

Topics: ritual, International Fountain, Seattle Center, winter, water, cold, hands

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