At 4:30 on a Saturday the only
light is from the hovering orange
globes that vast across the evening
trails.  the night is brisk, it forces a
unyielding beam on my face.  the
snow scratches against itself
like sand on the bottom of your
bicycle tires screeching across the
blacktop on blistering summer day at 2.  

the children are giddy as they approach the
ski lift levitating them to the top of
the “big hill”, their anticipation gnaws at
their fingertips and toes.  the perfectionist
parallel down the trail marked “black-diamond”,
we carve our way down to the point that marks
the end, “i’ll win this time” and zip away into the
deep of the horizon, and over the daunting cliff.

the flakes float on down and penetrate my
goggles, they hit my eyes like needles, the
wind whips by like a slap from nature,
later we will rest together when the
mountain closes, your hand in mine keeping
each other warm from the day, but at 4:30
we will be in our own separate worlds
gliding across the ******* fresh powder.