Until the thaw begins, tobogganing's

the white-knuckle ride par excellence;

the whoosh of the wind

and the unbroken bend

to swerve undisturbed dog excrement.

In this rarefied air the uncritical ear

is unable to rumble the avalanche;

the snow-blinded eye

doesn't see what may lie

underfoot or over the precipice.

As we hurtle in sight of the tipping point

and slalom ephemeral effigies,

reconsider that shit

and the size of those prints -

that's a polar bear seeking new premises.