the blank canvas of a winter morning
an overnight storm
a new mountain     a new skier
so many choices
the same turn a hundred times
a hundred turns all different.
first tracks     or maybe not
doesn’t matter
somewhere below our feet
somewhere below our skis
solid earth     a solid mountain
or maybe not
we know we can’t really fly
but in powder we are flying
and these tracks     so perfect
perfect signature of a skier’s ego
cursive writing     white on white
brush strokes     white on white
all that’s left when the dance is done
so soon gone on a stormy afternoon
filled-in as fast as we lay them down
sketches & notes no one needs to read
tracks     first tracks     last tracks
my tracks     your tracks
magic moments preserved
but only for a few more moments
and that’s enough