17
How to Fly
Steve Paoletti
My feet touch down on powdery snow,
As I leave the ski lift.
I stand at the top of the mountain.
The wind whips against my goggles and helmet
Begging to touch my skin with its cold whispers.
The snow has settled in a thick layer,
Just waiting for me to slice it in half.
The sun shines down on the ground,
Reflecting bright white into my eyes.
The wind beckons again,
The snow urging me forward,
I push off,
And leave the top.
The wind is a wolf, howling loud against my ears.
I move with swift precision,
Ripping through the snow,
A tall, white wake spewing up behind me.
My skis glide over the white land,
My adrenaline is pumping fast,
Blood rushing into my chest,
Filling my lungs with oxygen,
And beating my heart like a deep bass drum.
I speed down the slope,
My body nothing more than a blur,
An unexpected bullet
Ripping through air and snow.
The speed,
The adrenaline,
The snow,
The sport.
This is what I enjoy most.