Peter braced himself, slivers of sweat clinging to the nape of his neck. He felt the skis inch forward, breath thick with sharp air. His father's padded gloves softly flattened against his back as his body careened forward.
“Dad don’t go so fast-” Peter pleaded.
His father sheared the snow below, “Open your wings and God will provide the wind.”
Slowly, he put pressure on his right foot, following the arcs of the dented trail. It was a smooth movement, but his nerves still rattled in their sheaths. Exerting more force now, his three-sizes-too-tight boots chafed roughly on the hem of his red socks. Peter took to following his father. Remembering his Dad’s words, he wedged his feet into a triangle-like position, skis teetering from side to side. Compared to the well-hewn experience of his Dad, Peter felt inadequate but determined. Admiring the way he braced the snow with each sharp cleft, Peter imitated his movements. The rhythm began to form with each turn pounding in his bones.
Clotted snow crested the skin of his skis as he waded down. He carefully painted a path of the white landscape in sweeping brush strokes. Rushes of wind wrapped around his shins as he turned, sending enthrallment up his snow-flecked ears. The treeline slowly mounted the top of the hill, revealing bleached earth speckled in green hues.
Peter’s skis began to teeter, banking towards the left. Swathes of brush slammed into focus as he steadied his breath. Evergreens shot past his eyes as he ineptly weaved through looming patches. Birds warbled as he whipped past, scrambling to catch air to avoid getting nicked by his skis. His pipes clogged with the spice of crisp air, his thoughts retreating to a low buzz. Sunlight streamed through the treetops, rays struggling to reach the floor. He reached up with the tip of his ski pole, letting the light trace down to his maroon scarf. Simmering luminance clinging.
The smell of crushed pine whipped Peter's nose, reminding him of the powder compact his mother always applies every Christmas. He took in the fresh scent, the wind mimicking the whistle of her laughter and her snug embrace. A calm feeling set over Peter despite the speed of his descent. He dreamed of enjoying a fresh mug of silky cocoa huddled next to the warm fire. Swirling chocolate aroma and fresh pine.
His feathers unfurled, slipping through the sunlight and feeling the cool of winter dawn. Peter's wings were taut and he never wanted to land.