Aki loves this kind of snow—loose, cold, and just deep enough for burying her head. We found it covering all the ground in this meadow home of stunted spruce trees. I am willing to wait, hand cold by inaction, as she indulges herself.
for the cold air, blue skies, full sun, no wind
that my new ski boots fit over my ever widening feet
that the little dog takes joy from simple things and I try to do the same
for having enough gas money to fund the drive to this forest trail
having the health to ski down it
I am also frustrated—
that my heavy gloves fail my hands
that a prop plane drones overhead
that we might never see a world at peace.
Skiing on, we enter an old growth forest. I stop where the forest floor is spotlighted by an off stage art director, What story does she illustrate with such backlit beauty? I ski on before my ignorance leads to more frustration.