the cycle of sliding

A quite that descends from the snow covered tree tops
settling to the ground it feels like the silence might have a weight to it
and then a bird cry rings out trough the grey sky and thick forest of green
what was that
a magpie or maybe a crow it does not matter
just a cry of life that reminds us that existence is not human dependent
yet here we sit amongst the armies of trees guarding against unknown enemies
now sliding between their outstretched branches
feeling the wind tugging against our clothing like an urgent mother
trying to warn us of the dangers that accompany these speeds
but like the brash children we used to be we ignore her
twisting turning as the slope increases
the tint of our goggles making the world seem as if seen through a windshield
a layer of separation between our experience and the reality
before we know it the trees are parting like the red sea for moses
and the entire vista lays at our feet
our heads move like cats tracking mice as we enter the open
weaving our way down
the cold air starting to bite at our faces as if angered by our presence cutting through it
and then with a spray of snow like the ocean meeting the shore it is over
only for the cycle to begin anew