I was born for the bend of the mountain,
for the wild white rush beneath my feet,
for the silent second before gravity smiles
and dares me to follow.
Then I drop.
Snow splits.
Carbon carves.
The slope slips away beneath me
in a silver spray of shattered stars.
I carve through the cold
with my heart wide open,
hips low, hands loose,
wind whipping through every worry
I left somewhere at the summit.
There is no noise up here
except the hiss of powder,
the soft thunder of speed,
the sharp, sweet whisper
of a board biting into winter.
I am flying,
but closer to the earth
than I have ever been.
Every turn is a ribbon.
Every breath is a spark.
Every trail behind me says
I was here,
I was free,
I was fearless.
And for one perfect moment,
with snow in my lashes
and the whole mountain rushing beneath me,
I am not chasing anything.
I am the rush.
I am the rhythm.
I am the bright pink flash
cutting through the white.
I am winter’s wild little heartbeat,
slicing, sliding, soaring—
carving the mountain
to free my soul.
