Tread the Silence

Nightfall is a velvet curtain veiling the summit, and the sunrise gleams amber upon the Carpenter lift, each steel girder a pale scarlet shard reflecting the auroral dawn. The fabric of the snow, an immaculate azure talc, holds a crisp, corduroy glide beneath the boot, and the entail of the profession is measured behind the flanks of the Empire lift. The corridors of traffic, a knotted lattice of sideways sliders and their uninvited companions, cross in silvered shadows upon the slope of Corbett, yet are absent where the beams of the legislature live. A brittle quiet previous to excavation ensures the run is precise—grooming pressed into the texture of a freshly folded linen suit, with a precise bite down the vertical of 650 meters. The topography remains unchanged, with the papery white of rain‑deposits shining over the interface of the silver lake like mercury. Below, the emerald‑green pine might appear muted still, but the expectation is that the dry supplement to canvas exudes a Hungarian gemstone aura. I advise that the first run, to escape the masses, be the flat, hollow approach from the Silver Lake lift into the Corbett Sapphire, before the crowds rise.