angular mountain brings back
memories of stepping off cornices
and hanging, midair, for a scant
second before dropping down
long, deep black-diamond runs.
I can almost feel the sizzle
of adrenaline, pumping
from the back of my skull, zooming
down my spine and into my legs,
making them reach
for even more speed.
Turn. Turn. Don’t fight gravity.
Suck into its jet stream.
Once in a while I’d make a mistake,
catch an edge. Or a mogul.
Most times, I corrected
before taking a tumble.
Once or twice, I wasn’t so lucky,
dumping headlong down the hill,
sliding out of control
until the landscape leveled.
And that made the adrenaline
pump even faster.
Which reminds me.
I have not had an adrenaline
rush since I took my little detour,
one of nature’s irresistible highs, denied
by brain chemistry gone awry,
at the claws of the monster.
I might not know the cause