The blinding scape. I skim its ivory face,
The sound of shearing powder deafening.
But shearing turns to scraping when my skis
Encounter ice. One runs left and the oth-
Er right. I’m stumbling, tumbling, spinning down
Around the slope. I slide to stop, my ride
Now done. I attempt rising with one ski
And look above the peak to see my poles
And other ski at the top, strewn about.
I then begin a clambering ascent
To the top where another chance awaits.