Perched like an eagle on top of a ski hill.
Who would not have thought.
Eight hundred miles of mountains.
Would lead to here.
This dry little white one.
No more than a hill. Still.
Paid minimum wage to watch kids climb like boomerangs
come twirling throwing snow back to be whipped again.
Scarves hiding grins.
Nobody really has a gender.
Or an agenda.
Or anything better to do. Clearly.
Just surprised still at gravity.
Bolting fiberglass boards to boots.
Amused. When mountains for two months
leads to a mountain for two months.
As if it ever could have happened.
Any other way.
And still been mine.