BURGDORF SUTRA
1978 Rain on snow, and vast shelves and cornices thundering down off the peaks to the east. Icicles hanging from the flues of a moose. Thumps and whumps everywhere: trees shedd ing their burdens, limbs thrashing as though in wind, though there is no wind at all. Rain coursing down the ski tracks and sloshing over boots. Cabin and hot springs nine more miles. That recurring moment of wondering why, typical. Heart pounding hard in the ears, the body alive inside the pain of fatigue, the sky a spectacular menace of grays, and at the pass the rain changing back into snow, ski wax fouling again. A stop to scrape, pass the flask of icy rum, pass a smoke, admire in happy misery even still the landscapehigh valley, chains of tabula rasa meadows long fled by the lesser, smarter animals, a new cold coming down with the snow, the returned invigorating glide, left turn at the final two mile junction.
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I ROBERT WRIGLEY