Inspired by a weekend spent on the slopes, a bit of poetry.

Please note: the below is best read on a widescreen desktop or laptop.

Atop

pine-crested

ridge, I stand beside

stained glass of Nature.

To my left, bygone footfalls

of wandering deer. To my right,

constellation of frozen droplets affixed

to branch and bough, adorning each with

straining, glist’ning beauty. Here I stand, boots

creaking, quads burning, mouth panting. There She

waits, brook burbling, snow shimmering, trees swaying.

Tense man. Tranquil environment. One perennial, the other

essential. Which am I? No matter. I’m off — Careening, gliding,

sliding. Violent activity amidst still environment. Air shrilling, ice

scraping, skis carving; cutting sinews of snow both hard and soft,

packed and powdered, icy and easy. Gravity my fuel, friction meager

myth. Down. Down. Down — Until I arrive at mechanical, manmade base.

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