I sweep my foot forward, the board
chipping into blankets of snow.
Icy wind scratches my face,
white flakes cloud my sight.

The path of white slithers
down the mountain,
deep and steep.
I peer into its pale mouth,
my palms tingling in my gloves.

Skiers, streaks of red and green,
vanish far below.
I exhale in a puff of mist,
and my board slides
over bumps of snow,
gliding down through the slope.

Chilly air blasts the side of my face,
snow swishes under my board.
I lower and weave in and out,
swirls of white scattering,
wind whistling in my ears.

Snow engulfs me in frosty haze,
and nimble shapes of skiers fade,
the ripples of snow
falling to a hush.

I skim forth,
steady and quiet,
a cool wave breaking the surface.

A stream of white breathes past,
and my chest fills with a gush of air.
I drift down on my board,
swift and light as snow.