Skiing the Old Farm at Night

by Christopher Seid

The ruts of my two skis
   fill with shadow, blue ash
from the full moon’s burn.
   The dogs run ahead

to wrestle ghost dogs
   or a fallen pine bough
shivering in a crooked break.
   I’m panting from the work

of circling this field, nose
   runny and lungs scratched
raw from a head cold.  Still,
   it feels good to get close

to the hibernating world,
   to glimpse at least part of
the paralysis underneath.
   I never feel alone here, skiing

beside these trees; I know
   I’m being watched from inside —
good friend gliding with me,
quiet passenger, holding on.