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

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

the secret power that your reflective goggles give you

to unashamedly stare at boys in the gondola lift

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

in any case, at least a possibility of a wolf

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

the vast white space