Black Ice


I am sliding on black ice
in a slow graceful pirouette,
a white-knuckle spectator with a helpless sense
of unreality;
slithering downhill backwards.

Adrenaline stops the clock,
each second packed with acute perception.
Like a physics experiment
in real time:
an idealized state of zero friction
and unstoppable mass,
this hulk of steel and glass
in an incongruous dance
according to the relentless laws
of momentum and mechanics.

Black ice,
the evil twin
to jolly snowmen and freshly-fallen snow.
The slow-motion choreography of winter,
accompanied by tuneless music
— the sound of tires spinning uselessly.