Sub frozen weather surrounds
The three glide swiftly over moguls and ridges
Like missiles launched across a no-mans’ land
The tracks left behind offer trailings of continuity from one end to the other
Chased by racers who also want that champion run
A complete glide, straight-away to the edge of the landing pad
At the bottom there is little rest for the weary… they must begin the march
The trek back, against the wind, avoiding the falling flakes
Back up the hill, step one, step two
Instrument of mischief dragged behind
Initial urgency begins to slow
Cheeks red from exertion and not yet frostbitten
They’ve reached the top! What a feat! But who cares?
Must keep going, back down for the next round across the frozen tundra
Before their feet get cold and toes stiff
But they are getting tired, their march up has turned to waddle (like penguins)
In a zombie-like trance weathered and weary but thirsting for the next go
Too bad dad said its time to go home.
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