JEFF EWING

STIER

from A Hundred Hardanger Tunes

He would like to float just above
the snow, to move without
leaving any sign. Looking back
he would see only the mottling
of shadows cast by the ridge
to the east, the drag marks of
wind-bent brush. With luck he
would be forgotten, lost with
the others among the relic fjells.
But no, his skis sink through
the crust under his unsheddable
hereness, his knees pop, his
bindings creak. There’s no use
cursing the gods, they went
to ground millennia ago. Their
tracks are in the rock, cut deep.
What chance does he have?
To keep his going to himself.