The sleet and wind caste a melancholy cacophony.

Clouds painted the field of view only 50 yards ahead.

As the air shot through seams of my jacket, I and crew flew up the mountain.

A chariot ride for the rich and passionate.

.

My suffering, implicit in positive words

Which turn genuine in the fast curve

As I point my skis down the steep

My body in the core of the circle of the turn

.

My mind does not drift rather it slows

In the pursuit of speed

Here I am, there I was, forever chasing the absurd

Love of gravity and the catch of a bending ski