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10 seconds in a powder field

It’s been dumping in the Cascades, filling the slopes with powder, covering the hillsides with fresh— soft, sweet and pillowy. Two feet in the last couple days, they say. And I’ve been at my desk, caged in and chained to the chair, type, type, typing about nothing related to snowflakes, mountains or fresh air. My body is numb from the lack of exhileration, from want, numb from knowing what I’m missing. But I remember what it feels like:

You glide in.
And instantly–
your heart holds its beat.

You lose your mind to the silk and softness,
as feathery flakes flutter upon you and past.

Your breath hangs for moments in your mouth.

The magical floating feeling sending you
down, down,
with a slight curve to the left,
a gentle sway to the right.

Leaning back–far back–
flying blindly with your thin nose bouncing in graceful motion,
dipping in and out,
feeling the ground rise slightly and fall quickly away from under you.

The fresh snow knee-deep, and your knees bent.

The thick silence presses against you.
The intensity sucks your voice from your throat,
hollows your veins,
and makes captive all impulses, all thoughts…

Until POP! The scene bursts open before you again,
as you reach other end of the powder field.

The blood floods back through your wanting veins.
Your breath escapes wildly the cavernous mouth,
and your eyes see the evergreen trees and blue mountains again.

Silence.

Then come your joyous cries, galloping up your throat, past your vocal cords, across your tongue, and out into the crisp air and the valley of snow-covered peaks like a band of wild horses set free to fly.

You ease to a stop, out of breath. Full of life.

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