End of Season Blues

Last run, black line carved in ice,
Edges singing sharp and precise.
The mountain breathes a fading sigh,
Spring sun soft in a melting sky.

Snow turns to whispers under my board,
Each turn, a quiet, fleeting chord.
No tracks ahead, no need to race –
Just one more dance with this white space.

Lifts will sleep, and trails will fade,
But echoes live in turns we made.
I ride it out, then let it go –
Goodbye, old friend of winter snow.

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Source: Instagram