Avalanche

Edging through powder,
lifting butter cornices,
I sashay toward a beard of pine
between the Matterhorn's thighs.
An advanced class hiss past,
upper bodies stiff,
their metronome legs
doodling black runs,
itching the mountain.

At first there were crumbs,
toast at pace, then it chased
me like an incoming tide
until finally, the snow rolled like mist
but thick as meringue.
Pinned to the page,
lost punctuation,
I felt as though I'd spent hours
deciding which God to choose
before they pulled me out
- neanderthal man, intermediate species -
lost in a drift,
just three feet deep,
in sight of a bratwurst cafe
and a three-person lift.