One Hundred and Thirty One

My skis cross. The snow lifts off the mountain. The sky is the floor. I plow through the air. The aspens are men in suits jotting notes. The forest skates towards me. A voice rumbles like a snowmobile. A red vest lifts me into a tree and drags a cloud over my face. I stretch out on a bed of signposts. I crack like ice and splinter my fingers. I am awake.