Three Days At Stratton

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Disbelief

Attends the start of  each new winter season 

I really can’t be doing this

Seventy-one years old and bundled against the arctic cold,

I am once again atop a mountain, on a snowboard like some stoner kid

I  flinch, almost botching my first turn

Tensed against the profound improbability of all this, I am getting in my own way

Dropping down, bending my knees, I rotate my upper body into the next turn

That’s it, that’s it

I begin to fly, carving the sunlit snow

The board sliding and edging under my shifting weight

Lost in a rush of adrenaline and joyous terror, I enter a state of pure kinetic form.

The ecstasy of being alive is again my own

 

 

 

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