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the snow that has somehow got into your gloves
and is melting on your fingertips

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the air rushing out of your chest when you catch the edge and fall—

you fall a lot when you’re learning—

and hit the slope;

 

the slow deep breath to fill the lungs again;

 

the getting back up

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the secret power that your reflective goggles give you

to unashamedly stare at boys in the gondola lift

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the canine tracks in the snow that none of you can identify;

in any case, at least a possibility of a wolf

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the childish joy of holding onto a skier’s stick and being towed along on a flat run

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the vast white space