Couloir, cube of ice and rock whittled
away in all the right places
immaculately rising
from converging sea storm at
south end of Douglas Island dream
skiing off blind cliffs and landing
sometimes deep
in drifts so soft
only dream clouds could drop
making deep tracks
along this coast not unlike
this known place but rather
a mysterious Patagonian coast
a drift with explosive breakers
and icebergs
with an old friend
recruited from the sidewalk down
in the city where we passed
each other, one jogging
the other zooming
by on bicycle
Ascending through thick
white woods, canopy dropping
clods of heavy snow from
above, dreaming of the endless
views above tree line
and of fall lines
so graceful yet uncalculated
ecstasy of a smile
while riding fat, waxed bamboo boards
off the edge of the mountain,
the earth, out over the sea
catching thermals,
spinning, four, five, six times
imagining the magic of the moment
shattering on rocks below
only to find wind in
coat sails
and setting down
softly to dream-ski
another day
Jonas Lamb 