Branches weave a woody back to bear the cloak of snow. You and I pass words back and forth in hot white clouds, borne on the cold white air. Then the forest opens its mouth and spits us out into a lush green field and I stand bewildered, up to my hips in vegetation, while you walk on as though the world has revealed nothing just now. But the universe has torn its own veil and I can see everything as if I’d made it myself.
I have made it myself. This is a dream. I made the snow, I made the flowers, and I can make anything that magnetizes my heart. My feet, to spite gravity, let go of the earth and I float a few yards, wondering what to build with this new and infinite freedom.
Back to the snow, then; to the summit! There is no one on my mountain. It rears its powdered head for only me. I strap the board to my feet, flirt with the crest, and plummet.
The nose angles down while my back foot pumps furiously, checking my speed. I rocket toward the base. Now only one thing stands between me and the perfect run: a wrinkle in the trail, as if someone seized it by the base and shook it out, or as if a cat crawled beneath the smooth sheet of snow and fell asleep there. I crouch low to the board and the white earth shoots me into the sky, bottoms up. I cartwheel through the air and land with a graceful, satisfying piff.
Black diamond trail, you have been conquered.