At twenty five thousand
Beats per minute
Careening through the goat trails
Riding a yellow line
Between precaution and pretension.
The wind pulls my fellow travelers
Off the track
Littered in ditches
Along the icy path.
Knuckles white as the snow
Flying past my eyes
Warp speed,
Hoping I am on the right side
As a stranger in the night
Appears in the horizon.
I find the yellow line again
Reassurance in a world wiped clean
Of colour.
I hold it to my side,
As I ride out the storm.
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